Wolf Whistle
by Lampito
Summary: Sam's worried when his big brother goes to a tantric sex workshop to check a suspected witch, because Dean will happily get in touch with any woman's feminine side, but not his own. Sam's pretty sure he'll go totally yin-yang before they sort this out...
1. Prologue

WARNING: The plot bunny muttering about this one is shy, and possibly has a speech impediment - however, it is VERY annoying, and I'm hoping that writing down something it says will embolden it and make it more articulate, and encourage it to dictate more. Reviews help too, what with me being an unrepentant addict (I went to a Review Addicts Anonymous meeting once; they asked me to leave). As such, the summary, title, and possibly even whole chapters may change as we go. But the Denizens of the Jimiverse are an adventurous lot

**DISCLAIMER: **I don't own any of it - if I did, Bobby would currently be enjoying a fortnight in the Bahamas on rec leave as we speak, before getting back to Singer Salvage to talk to the architect about rebuilding his house, while Sam and Dean argued over wallpaper, furniture, paint charts, carpet samples and curtain fabric swatches. Oh, yeah, and some terrible disaster would be in the offing, which could only averted by sacrificing That Gamble Woman to a volcano god, or something...

**WORKING TITLE:** Wolf Whistle

**SUMMARY:** The sun comes up in the East. Water is wet. Birds fly. Fish swim. Dean pisses off witches. Which is why Sam is just a bit worried when his big brother goes undercover to a tantric sex workshop to scope out a yoga practitioner they suspect of being a witch; it's hard to see Dean getting in touch with his feminine side, although he's keen to get in touch with the feminine sides of other workshop participants. Sam's pretty sure he'll go completely yin-yang before they get this sorted out.

**RATING:** T. 'Dean'. 'Tantric sex workshop'. You do the math.

**BLAME:** I blame whoever sent this plot bunny. And all the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In to the Jimiverse who keep encouraging me. And aeicha who voted for tantric sex when reviewing 'And Laurie Partridge In A Pear Tree'.

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

Blood. So much of it. And right after he'd put on a clean shirt that morning, too.

Not that he was squeamish; he'd seen plenty of blood before, including his own. The feeling was more one of... annoyance. Damned blood. Should stay on the inside, where it's supposed to be...

"Y'r ramblin'," he slurred to himself, pushing drunkenly to his feet before falling over again. Probably slipped on his own blood. Stupid blood. No, he peered more closely at his left leg, wrapped in the shredded remains of his plaid shirt; it was his leg's fault. It folded up under him. Yep, he should blame his leg. It was mostly his leg that was the one that insisted on letting all the blood out in the first place. Not that his arm helped much. And he wasn't going to apologise to his blood, nuh-uh, not while it was making a break for freedom like that. Stupid leg. Stupid arm. Stupid limbs. Stupid blood. Stupid monster.

Well, no, not stupid monster. It had been smart. A lot smarter than him.

It came out of nowhere, had been on him before he'd had time to see what it was, totally unexpected. Fast, silent, and huge. Jesus Christ, the damn thing was fucking massive. It's not like he was loaded with silver – the clip he emptied into it didn't even slow it down.

Him. It was a him. No female werewolf ever got that big. Didn't slow him down. Before he could even register what it was, it hit him like an angry slavering truck, mauling him with claws like sharpened gardening forks, and brute strength, tossing him across the clearing and pouncing like a cat chasing a wounded mouse, raising an enormous hand-paw for the killing strike that would tear out his throat, and let the rest of his treacherous, stupid blood out, stopping only when a sudden pair of headlights lit up the small clearing like airliner landing lights, dropping him like a torn rag doll and loping away silently into the scrub...

There was something wrong, though, something not right. Okay, apart from the fact that so much of his blood was on the outside, something wrong about the werewolf. Something important. He had to tell Bobby, had to let Bobby know. He'd be able to figure it out. But his head was spinning, and his ears were buzzing, but this was important. He managed to work his cell out of his pocket. Bobby, he had to call Bobby... He dropped the phone, and was groping blindly for it when he heard running feet, then there were worried voices trying to be calming, telling him to hold still, help was on the way.

He gasped for air, and shook his head as gravity did another sickening barrel roll, pushing hands away. There was something he had to do, something important, but he couldn't remember what it was...

"Hey, take it easy buddy, the ambulance is on its way," a professionally brisk female voice told him. The voice said 'cop' louder than her uniform. She must've caught sight of his phone. "There somebody we can call?"

"Tell m'brother not t'worry, 'm fine," he rasped, fighting the urge to throw up. That was important; he didn't want his brother to worry. But there was something else important, too. "Bobby... tell B'bby... 'mportn't..."

He cursed his stupid, uncooperative blood again as cold darkness pulled him under.

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><p>Don't blame me, blame the bunny. It's important for the rest of the story, apparently.<p>

Reviews make the bunnies whisper more loudly!


	2. Chapter 1

OMGWTFBBQ! I has teh overwhelmed, as the Denizens do their very best to urge the plot bunny to whisper louder by reviewing prolifically. *sniff sniff* You are all so naise. I don't think I've ever had so many reviews for one chapter. *sniff sniff*. I feel so loved, wanted and needed. You really do like seeing them damaged, don't you? Maybe I should just write an entire fic consisting of nothing but shirtless Winchesters getting tied up, whacked around a bit, and dunked in custard. With a bit of box-stuffing for Leahelisabeth. You'd love it. You depraved individuals.

And a special welcome to the Lurkers who have broken cover to join in the shenanigans that is the Jimiverse. In your honour, please observe the following performance of the Dance Of Welcome...

**Dean:** I don't do 'dance'.

**Sam:** This outfit is a bit drafty.

**Lampito:** Come on, come on, do the Dance Of Welcome. Or else.

**Dean and Sam:** Or else what?

**Lampito:** You'll get shoved into a box, and you will be introduced to a dominatrix named Mistress Tinsel, because the Denizens really seem to like That Sort Of Thing.

**Dean and Sam:** EEEEEK!

*they shuffle out on stage and do the Dance Of Welcome*

_Welcome to the Lurkers, there is no need to lurk,_  
><em>Come out and be our Denizens, we'll be your bitch and jerk,<em>  
><em>That vicious cow Lampito, who writes the Jimiverse<em>  
><em>Will dunk us both in custard and from there it just gets worse.<em>

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><p><strong>Chapter One<strong>

_**t minus one week**_

"So, that's a chicken salad with avocado, a banana, and a mocha latte frappacino, with extra sprinkles," Dean beamed as he dropped Sam's lunch in front of him. Sam stared at him. "I asked for the mayo on the side, how you prefer it," Dean added helpfully. "It's just there," he pointed to a small plastic sachet as his brother continued to stare at him. "And no cream on your frappacino." Sam's eyes bored into him. "And I got you a bag of roasted chick peas, in case you wanted something nutritionally sound to munch on while you do your research." He gave Sam his most winning smile.

Sam narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What's going on, Dean?" he demanded.

"What? Nothing!" Dean replied emphatically, his expression becoming hurt.

"Nothing. Right," echoed Sam, disbelief dripping from his voice as he poked at the salad suspiciously with a pen. "You just go and get me exactly what I asked for, rather than what you think I should be eating, which is what you so often do, and nothing is going on." He glared at the banana, as if daring it to explode. "So, what is it? Is this a joke banana? When I peel it, is there a sex toy inside the skin or something?"

"I'm distressed by your distrust, Sam," sighed Dean in a most put-upon tone, "How could you possibly accuse me, your big brother, of sabotaging your lunch?"

"Because you have form," Sam told him tersely. "Messing with my food is a hobby for you."

"No it isn't!" Dean disagreed vigorously in a hurt voice, before biting into his own cheeseburger. "Well, okay," he admitted, "Occasionally, I might try to steer you away from burritos, since we know that your stomach is capable of turning the most innocent combination of tortilla and vegetables into a toxic gas so poisonous that Saddam Hussein sent agents to kidnap you when you were a baby – you probably don't remember – and so environmentally unsound that you are personally contributing more to causing global warming than all the burping cows on the planet..."

"Uh-huh," Sam stirred his drink carefully, "So, that cockroach that I found in my latte last month, what was it doing in my drink?"

"Backstroke?" suggested Dean brightly.

"And that time I found half a dead mouse in a vegetable lasagne, I suppose you had nothing at all to do with that?" pressed Sam.

"No! No!" declared Dean firmly. "That wasn't my fault! That was NOT my fault. It was a whole mouse to start with..."

"I would have thought that after the Christmas Cookie Incident of 2007, you would have learned your lesson about adulterating food," Sam gave him a pointed look.

"Oh, come on, don't tell me you never tried hash when you were at Stanford," said Dean with a dismissive wave of a hand, "How was I supposed to know you'd be such a lightweight? I made you come back inside before you got frostbite – and the Widow Witherspoon agreed not to press charges after I told her that you were a practising pagan, and dancing bareass in the snow was part of a religious observance for you..."

"And let's not even broach the topic of the Packet Of Mayo Debacle Of 2008," griped Sam with an impressive shot of Bitchface #10™ (Tonight, You Die In Your Sleep). "I have not forgotten, and I have not forgiven – I went this close to putting that, that, stuff on my salad..."

"It wouldn't have done you any harm," Dean said with a small pout, "It was very similar to mayonnaise. It was of biological origin, certainly..."

"The point is," Sam glared at him again, "When you put exactly what I asked for, plus unsolicited snacks I might like that you won't, in front of me, with a bright sunny smile, I am totally justified in being suspicious."

"You totally aren't!" Dean shot back. "What, I can't try to do something nice for my beloved baby bro? My awesome baby bro? My research wizard baby bro? My baby bro, who found me a totally awesome Hunt, requiring my particular skills to track down the evil witch..."

_Ah, so that's what it was about,_ mused Sam silently. "Dean," he said levelly, "I found us a Hunt, based on a series of suspicious disappearances and deaths, around days associated with the worship of the Mahavidya goddesses of Hinduism. I did not set out to find a Hunt co-located with a yoga studio, where the instructor is a whack-job New Age devotee of selected pieces of Eastern mysticism removed from their proper context who runs workshops she claims will impart knowledge about enhancement of, um, one's private life..."

"Tantric sex, Sam!" chirped Dean happily. "Not just sex, but tantric sex! Worship of the divine feminine! Activating chakras! Ecstatic consciousness! Full body orgasms! Sacred prostitutes! This is even better than possessed strippers!"

Sam sighed, suspecting that the battle was lost before it even began. "I highly doubt that she's teaching authentic tantric practices, Dean," he tried valiantly, "It's a spiritual meditation discipline – the sexual aspect is a minor part of the striving to raise spiritual consciousness..."

"You just gotta try to bust my bubble, don't you, Professor Puritan?" grinned Dean, clearly not about to let his bubble be busted. "I should drag you in there, and hand you over as a challenge. 'See if you can get him laid', I should say, 'See if you can get him to do it without crying', I should say. 'Bonus points if you can get him to do it with the lights on'."

"Dean!" snapped Sam. "Can you try, just for once, to get your mind above your belt?"

"Nuh-uh," Dean replied with a smirk, "This is a once in a lifetime opportunity to mix business with pleasure, Sam, and I intend to carpe the diem just as hard as I can. Preferably with as many hot women as possible. Hot, yoga-doing women. Hot, flexible women..." He took a large bite of his cheeseburger, chewed, and sighed contentedly. "A whole bunch of women in lycra thongs will be a change from the fuglies we normally have to mix with on a job."

"Well, you won't be mixing with anyone," Sam humphed with a small uncharitable stab of smugness, "If it is this particular yoga teacher who's responsible, she'll have an altar. We have to scope the place out. So, it's a break-in after dark..."

"I think in this case that a more direct approach might be appropriate, and fruitful," countered Dean, "I think that if I just walk in there, I can get to have a good look around during daylight hours." He handed a small pamphlet . "See? There's a workshop starting in a couple of days..."

Sam took the proffered flyer and read it. " 'Sacred Sluts and Gorgeous Goddesses'," he read, " 'A workshop to celebrating the divine feminine aspect within every woman's sizzling sacred sexual self'." He turned an exasperated expression on Dean. "You can't attend this," he scoffed, "It's for women. She won't let you enrol."

"I already have," replied Dean, waggling his eyebrows in a fashion that was probably illegal in some conservative states.

"_What_?" Sam shot his brother an incredulous look.

"Yup," Dean radiated infuriating smugness, "While you were enjoying sacred union yesterday with your true soul partner, your laptop, I was enrolling to discover the amorous avatar within."

Sam stared at his brother. "Okay," he conceded, "Okay, you have the eyes, and the lips, and with a close shave and a wig and maybe some eyebrow grooming you could probably pass as, I don't know, an East German javelin thrower or something, but_... how_?"

"I just told her that I am a devout worshiper of the divine feminine, in all its aspects," Dean replied airily, "And that I am earnest in wanting to challenge the condescending patriarchal assumptions about the role of women, and indeed Woman, in the cosmic scheme, as conditioned into me by a misogynistic post-feminist upbringing intent on treating the female as secondary, servile and sexually submissive."

Sam felt his eyes cross. "Where the hell did you get that from?" he demanded.

"I found an essay by Germaine Greer, and picked out every fifth word," smiled Dean, "But the important thing is, it worked Sammy, it worked! The Living Sex God is going to attend the workshop, and be instructed in tantric methods that may be practised solo, in partnership, or in group rituals, clothing optional..."

Sam sighed. "Just when I think you can't get any hornier," he moaned. "I'm starting to think that possessed strippers might have been preferable. At least you keep your clothes on when we're exorcising demons."

"Look on the bright side, Sam," Dean gave his brother a happy smile, "You said there's good wifi at the library, yeah? So you can go whisper sweet nothings to the electrons, while I'm cultivating expanded erotic consciousness. Tell you what, I'll even pay for you to get your own room, if you find my homework too confronting."

"Homework?" squeaked Sam.

"Oh, yeah, I gotta practise," leered Dean.

"What homework?" Sam asked, immediately wishing he hadn't.

"I don't know yet, but if you like, I'll introduce you to her when I bring her back." Dean could have leered competitively at Olympic standard. "Or them, if we have to do group assignments." He suddenly looked thoughtful, pausing with a bunch of fries halfway to his mouth. "I wonder if she'll read to us from the Kama Sutra?" he mused. "I better take a red pen, so I can show her the bits they got wrong..."

Sam shuddered. Jimi, the half-Hellhound Rottweiler, whuffed sympathetically, and put a paw on his Second's knee.

"Yeah, you better take Jimi to stay with you," Dean commented. "Chicks don't like it when he jumps on the bed and licks them, although I once had this girl who thought it was me, and she said I had the most talented tongue she'd ever encountered..."

The small, sad whining noise might've come from the dog, or from Sam, Dean wasn't sure.

Sam had a sudden despairing mental picture of himself losing all his hair either from stress, or tearing it, out while trying to deal with his big brother. If that happened, he told himself, at least he could throw himself on the mercy of the nearest Buddhist monastery and ask for asylum.

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><p>elf's postulate: witch + tantric sex = Nanny Ogg. Which poses an interesting question; if Dean met Gytha Ogg, who would blink first? I'm sure that Dean would thoroughly enjoy <em>The Joye Of Snacks<em>, especially Strawberry Wobbler - but would he end up having to fight a duel with Casanunda?

Reviews are the Amusingly Improbable Yoga Poses on the Mat Of Life!


	3. Chapter 2

Hmmm, if Jimi and Greebo met... I suspect it would be similar to when Greebo met Legba, the bird of power. There would be a lot of posturing and snarling (Jimi would show his hellteeth and red eyes, and Greebo would grin at him and casually strop his claws on the nearest piece of furniture), then they'd each decide that they wouldn't stoop to dirtying their paws on the other, wash their groins at each other, then pointedly ignore each other for the rest of their encounter. If it was You, of course, she'd have Jimi wrapped around her little dew claw from the get-go, and would no doubt use him as a mobile cushion and convenient canine conveyance.

As to Dean encountering Granny Weatherwax, I can only imagine. Presumably he'd be charming as he asked for help with a Hunt. (He wouldn't be there to gank her, because as we all know, nobody ever killed witches on the Discworld, although plenty of religious sects did kill elderly or eccentric women with no family or friends to defend them.) She'd give him _that_ glare, and tell him, "You'd better not be paddlin' with the occult, my boy, I can't be having with paddlin' with the occult..." and possibly, "If you're goin' to make double intenders like that, you can go and ask Gytha, and I guarantee you, my lad, after she's finished with you, you won't walk straight for a week." But she'd agree to help him. He'd be the one person who genuinely enjoyed her rock cakes, and would probably also offer to have a look at her broom.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

Sam sat outdoors at a café, enjoying a completely cockroach-free coffee (he checked) and cross-referencing a translation from Sanskrit; one version rendered 'A woman of great wealth', whilst the other described 'A woman with large breasts', and the context didn't help much. Jimi snoozed contentedly at his feet, stirring only to wag his tail and whuff at the waitresses when they passed (he had turned on the Big Brown Wistful Eyes, and now they were dropping him scraps from the plates they were carrying back to the kitchen). It was a clear, pleasant day, the coffee was good, and he was just thinking about deploying his own Big Wistful Sammy Eyes to see if he could score a cookie with his next drink, when his cell rang.

He stared at it as if it was a poisonous creature waving its venom-dripping stinger at him. He really desperately wanted to let it go through to voicemail, but then the anticipation of hearing the message would be just as excruciating... no, he decided, the band-aid approach was needed here. He picked up the phone.

"Sammy!" Dean's appallingly cheerful disposition emanated from the phone. "You out of bed yet?"

"I've been out of bed for hours, Dean," Sam sighed, "Doing some actual research on this case..."

"I'm researching too, Sam," came the reply. Sam blanched; he could hear his brother's eyebrows waggle. "Wanna hear what we've been doing?"

"No," replied Sam, wincing, "But I have a horrible feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

"This morning, we sat in a circle, and brushed each other's hair," Dean told him.

Sam blinked. "You... brushed each other's hair?" he echoed faintly.

"Yeah. It was really relaxing and friendly," Dean went on.

"Hair? As in, hair, on your heads?" Sam persisted.

"Of course!" scoffed Dean. "Jesus, Sam, what other hair would you sit and brush with a group of people you've only just met? Your mind, little bro, sometimes I think it's so repressed, it's turning in on itself, I can't decide whether it's kinky or perverted..."

"So, what happened after that?" Sam grated out through gritted teeth.

"Well, while we brushed each other's hair, we introduced ourselves," Dean described, "And then we had to say what we thought was our best physical feature. And then we had to tell everybody else something we thought was really attractive about them."

Sam was nonplussed. "Oh, er, okay, that all sounds very... nurturing," he commented carefully.

"Oh, yeah, it's totally about being nurturing, and positive, and making us feel good about who we are, and feeling allowed to enjoy our bodies," Dean confirmed cheerfully. "Then we did some drawings. Of other people's best features."

"Drawings?" Sam frowned. Frankly, it didn't sound like the sort of activity that would get Dean enthused – he was having trouble picturing his big brother sitting quietly, drawing women's lips or eyes (or racks or asses, more likely) when he'd been anticipating a few days of carnal cavorting.

"Yeah. Drawing. You'd have liked that bit. Hey, I liked it, it was like being in kindergarten again, all those coloured pencils lined up..."

Sam jotted a note to himself to check on that later – the fact that Dean sounded so engaged about some pretty harmless ice-breaker activities might possibly be evidence of occult interference. Then again, he mused, it could just be as a result of his brother's capacity to enjoy the company of women. Especially if they were sitting around in yoga pants that didn't leave much to the imagination.

"Okay, so have you seen anything that looks suspicious?" he pressed for relevant details.

"Yeah," Dean replied, "Some small statues, and some texts, and other stuff. I took photos. I told everyone I wanted to take pictures of their drawings, and I made sure that I lined 'em up with the items of interest behind them."

"Good thinking," Sam replied, sending up a small prayer of thanks to the Great God Upstairs Brain that Dean had managed to keep at least some of his attention on the case, "Can you sent them through? I'm on the laptop."

"Well, if it's not interrupting anything private that you two have going on," said Dean cautiously. Sam rolled his eyes. "Okay, I'll send 'em through to you."

There was a short delay, then messages started arriving. "Okay," Dean's voice came from the phone, "This one's to the left of the main door. And that's Melanie's lips."

"Very nice," humphed Sam, zooming in on the small icon in the wall niche.

"And this one's on the right of the door, plus Cynthia's eyes," Dean's commentary went on.

"That one looks familiar," Sam muttered, "Like Kali's malevolent avatar, but it's not her."

"This is a scroll hanging on the wall, to the right of the first one," Dean continued, "And my best feature, as drawn by Natalie..."

"Okay, it's just JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!" Sam let out a shriek and nearly jumped off his chair. "DEAN, WHAT THE FUCK? !"

"It's my best feature, Sammy," he could hear the smirk on Dean's face over the phone, "In fact, this one contains another scroll, and my best feature drawn by Georgia..."

"OhGodohGodohGodohGodohGod," moaned Sam, closing his eyes, "I can't look, I can't look..."

"Aaaaand this is Paula's rendition of my best feature. With another icon."

"How the hell do they know... oh, God," Sam swallowed hard at the implication, "Did you... are you... _why are you undressed in front of all those women? !_"

"Well, everybody else is," Dean told him defensively. "It would be prudish not to."

_"Why did you have to take your clothes off to brush each other's hair?"_ Sam squeaked.

Dean's voice was almost sad. "It's about being comfortable in your skin, Sammy. It's a sad hang-up to have. This workshop is to help people get over that. The human body is a beautiful, natural thing, Sam, capable of beautiful, natural acts, and if we can't get past this shame about the living temples we inhabit during this incarnation, how can we ever actually really enjoy the bliss they can experience?"

"Shame? _Shame?"_ Sam spluttered. "You have about as much shame as a Hollywood director doing product placements!"

"Which is how it should be," Dean stated firmly. "I really think you're the one who should be here. You'd have enjoyed the hairbrushing, with all that girly hair. I bet that's what everybody would've drawn as your best feature. Maybe we can swap over, if I explain that you really need to do this more than me..."

"I am NOT sitting around naked in a room full of strangers, drawing amateur porn!" growled Sam, "How could anyone sit around for days in a room full of naked strangers?"

"But we're not strangers any more," Dean pointed out patiently, "We all know each other now."

"You know each other's names," corrected Sam brusquely, "What happens if one of those women is some sort of weirdo, some sort of sexual predator, or something?"

"Oh, please, oh, please," breathed Dean.

"Don't you DARE send me any more pictures of... that," instructed Sam.

"You getting envy, bro?" Dean's infuriating grin nearly made Sam smash the cell.

"No, I'm getting queasy. That last one, shit, it was disturbingly... realistic..."

"She's a medical illustrator," Dean told him.

"Well, no more DIY porn," Sam grumped.

"Won't have time this afternoon," Dean informed him chirpily, "We're not going to be sitting around naked, drawing each other."

"Good." humphed his little brother.

"We'll be moving on to some massage technique practice, and I'll be too slippery to use my phone..."

"Aaaaaargh!" Sam let out an anguished wail. "I don't want to know!"

"...although I'm sure that if I asked our instructor, she'd be happy to film it for me..."

"_Goodbye_, Dean," Sam cut the call with a shudder. Really, it was all just too horrible for words. He sighed, and started trying to crop the photos so that he could enlarge them to study the suspect items without getting a screenful of a sight that no brother should have to look at. It was quite difficult, as he was trying to do it with his eyes shut.

One of the waitresses, seeing that he had taken what was obviously a distressing call, brought him a yoyo cookie, on the house.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"I hate you," he told Dean over pizza at the end of the day, "I totally hate you."

Dean sighed in a caring way. "I know you don't mean that, Sammy," he smiled, "But I understand that it must be difficult for you, being the purely mortal brother of the Living Sex God."

"I am scarred for life," Sam went on, "For _life_. I told you not to send me any more disgusting photos!"

"I didn't!" Dean was adamant.

"Oh yeah?" Sam shot back. "Then what did you call that last... attachment?"

"It was a video," Dean shrugged.

"Dean, it was titled 'That smoke is moving strangely'," Sam accused.

"Well?" Dean looked confused. "It was. There was something... weird about the way the smoke was rising from the incense burner. It was... choppy. Not right. It moved strangely, but there was absolutely no draft. I thought it might be important, and that you'd better have a look at it. That was job-relevant recon, Sam."

"In the background, yes," Sam conceded, "But what you and your... class-mates were doing in the foreground, fuck me, it burned out a number of relays in my brain..."

"Where did I go wrong with you?" Dean shook his head sadly. "It's clearly some sort of jealousy reaction, you have trouble dealing with the fact that the Living Sex God is right at home in the company of open-mined women, frisky, flexible, open-mined women..."

"You're incurable," Sam griped.

"Any luck with those icons?" asked Dean.

"They do appear to be representations of two Mahavidya goddesses," Sam told him, "But I'm not sure exactly which ones – the resolution isn't that good. Seeing as the focus of the photos was actually somewhere else..."

"Maybe the scrolls will help," suggested Dean, patting Jimi, who jumped onto the bed and nudged his Alpha, Big Brown Eyes dialled all the way up to eleven, trying to solicit pizza morsels. "Hey, did you just burp bacon in my face?" Dean frowned at the dog.

"He was working his own Living Snacks God mojo for most of the day," Sam informed him.

"That's my boy," Dean patted the dog, and handed over a chunk of pizza.

When Jimi was happily snuffling the empty boxes around the floor licking up crumbs, Dean announced that he had to get on with his homework.

Sam looked panicked. "You're kidding," he breathed, looking like a deer caught in a spotlight. He leaped to his feet, and started shoving things into his duffel. "I'm out of here, dude, I am so out of here..."

"Relax, Sammy," Dean reassured him, "It's just some tantric breathing exercises."

"Breathing?" Sam sounded doubtful.

"Breathing," confirmed Dean.

"Breathing, as in, air moving in and out of your lungs?" queried Sam.

"That exact same breathing," Dean nodded.

"Not naked breathing?" demanded Sam.

"It can be done naked, but there's no need," Dean told him, "I wasn't planning on undressing."

"With all your clothes on?" Sam wanted to make sure.

"Well, I'll take my overshirt off, I think, and leave my boots off, but otherwise, yeah, with all my clothes on," Dean reiterated.

"So, breathing, with no nudity at all?" Apparently, the latent lawyer in Sam, like an old Jedi knight, had never died, it just faded in and out from time to time.

"I will sit, wearing clothes, and breathe," Dean said with finality. "That's all. In fact, I'll fold up the quilt from the bed, and take it into the bathroom, and breathe in there, so you won't even have to see me. It'll be just you, and your laptop, free to swap electrons in privacy. I am of course trusting you to practise safe surfing..."

"All right, all right," Sam rolled his eyes, "You go do your tantric breathing. I'll get together a list of more details I'd like about those icons. You can see if you can get a closer look at them tomorrow."

Attaboy, Sammy," Dean clapped him on the shoulder, then picked up the quilt from his bed, "You be a brave boy." He stepped into the bathroom, gave Sam a cheery thumbs-up, and closed the door.

Sam shook his head, and smiled to himself. Who knows, Dean might actually learn something from this workshop after all.

He had returned to his research when, several minutes later, he heard what sounded like a moan. His head snapped up, but the sound had stopped.

A few minutes later, another moan emanated from the bathroom. He approached the door cautiously.

"Er, you okay in there, bro?" he called.

"Everything's just okey-dokey, Sam," Dean called back. "Don't interrupt, please, I gotta concentrate on channelling my shaktis."

"Right, right. Um." Sam returned to his queries.

The following three moans got progressively louder, and, in his opinion, unnecessarily evocative.

He stomped across the room and banged on the bathroom door. "Dean!"

"Can't talk, channelling shaktis," came the breathy reply.

He's doing it to annoy me, Sam told himself, as the noises from the bathroom became louder, more frequent, and more pornographic. Sam started to worry that they might get complaints from the room next door.

"He'll have to stop soon, won't he?" Sam asked the dog a little desperately, some time later, after a particularly suggestive gasp set his teeth on edge. Jimi whined a little, and gazed at his Second with compassion. _This is my Alpha we're talking about. He can do this all night. Ghastly personal experience has taught you that._

A wavering, gasping moan trembled and rose in pitch in a truly perturbing way.

And he's only one day into the workshop...

Ten minutes later, it was the panting that drove him out. Leaving a note for Dean, Sam grabbed up his duffel, headed for the office, and booked another room.

Five minutes after he'd restarted his laptop, Jimi utilised his Hellhound blood's talents to walk through the wall to join him, dragging his bedding blanket with him. He crawled under the bed, and whined.

Sam had a strange urge to do the same thing.

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Free Yoyo Bikkies on the Saucer of the Hot Beverage Of Life! (Or they are the Moaning Writhing Winchester Panting on the Folded Up Quilt Of Life. Take your pick.)<p> 


	4. Completely Irrelevant Interlude

As we all know, the Jimiverse is officially entirely, totally, utterly AU. In the Jimiverse, after the ghastly shenanigans of S6, Castiel suffered from a truly spectacular bout of gastrointestinal upset after swallowing so many souls, and, after an episode that defied the Earthy laws of physics, theology and plumbing, the naughty souls were flushed back into Purgatory, leaving Castiel feeling very foolish and completely contrite and determined to be a better Sheriff of Heaven until his Father gets back.

If Chez Singer was ever blown up, then pretty soon after that, Team Free Will lured the Leviathans into the Purgatory portal with promises of something they couldn't resist (It could've been fresh liver, it could've been triple-thickness toilet paper) and flushed them away too.

This would of course necessitate the rebuilding of Bobby's house. Apparently, SeaGlassGreen is hanging out for that story, being something of an interior design addict. Alas, it will probably never be written in its entirety, but in an effort to keep the Keeper Of The Custard Tub happy (because I try to cater to the Denizens' more depraved, deluded or plain weird preferences), perhaps we can peek in on a small scenelet that might've played out while Bobby was making plans for the reconstruction efforts... (and I just happen to be trapped in an entirely useless meeting...)

* * *

><p><strong>COMPLETELY IRRELEVENT INTERLUDE: AN EPISODE FROM THE REBUILDING OF SINGER SALVAGE IN THE JIMIVERSE<strong>

_Bobby is sitting at a table with an architect_

**Architect:** So, Mr Singer, I see you've made some sketches already. Why don't you talk to me about some of your ideas?

**Bobby** (poring over sketches): Well, starting upstairs, I want an en suite off the master bedroom. A decent-sized tub, and one-and-a-half-sized shower, an on-demand hot water service, of course...

*the sound of raised voices temporarily interrupts them*

**Architect** (taking notes): And the bidet?

**Bobby:** Only in the main restroom, I think. Separate from the main bathroom. Although I want an air-assisted cistern on all of 'em.

*they are distracted momentarily by thumping noises*.

**Architect:** Kohler make a model with an electrical pump, which gives an even better flush than air-assisted models.

**Bobby:** That sounds like the go then. A minimum of three other bedrooms upstairs, with an en suite off the largest one, which has gotta be big enough for two king singles... Oh, and that one needs to be soundproofed, too. With a solid wood door. And reinforced walls. And heavy duty cleanable carpet. And washable paint. And unbreakable fittings. And laminated glass.

**Architect **(smiling): You have grandchildren come to stay with you?

**Bobby** (glumly): Worse.

*the sounds of argument get louder. Sam and Dean burst in, both indignantly waving glossy brochures.*

**Sam:** Bobby! BOBBY! Dean's being indecent!

**Dean: **Bobby! BOBBY! Sam's being a total bitch!

**Sam: **He wants transparent shower screens in our bathroom! And a full length mirror! That's just wrong!

**Dean:** He wants Victorian reproduction fittings! In lilac! And how damned fiddly would that wrought metalwork be to clean?

**Sam: **Timber flooring is just not practical in a bathroom, not to mention how environmentally unsound it can be.

**Dean:** Lilac! Lilac porcelain, Bobby! And lilac walls! *he slaps a wallpaper sample and a paint chart down accusingly* No man could possibly move his bowels whilst seated in Lilac Hell...

**Sam:** There's a wide range of non-slip tiling surfaces available for wet areas, much more suitable to bathrooms that wooden floors. *he plonks a brochure down in front of Bobby* I think this would be better for the kitchen, too, instead of slate. That can get slippery underfoot if it's wet.

**Dean: **But it's a better medium for the underfloor heating – it distributes the heat more evenly. *he puts another pamphlet in front of Bobby*.

**Sam:** Bobby, please tell Dean that he can't have our room painted black.

**Dean:** At least I don't want it painted lilac...

**Sam:** I never said I wanted our room painted lilac! There's a ceiling shade that has blue tones to it, called lilac-white, that's very cooling, and would be ideal for a bedroom.

**Dean:** I'm not having your sissy lilac over my bed!

**Sam:** Well I'm not tolerating matching AC/DC quilt cover sets!

**Dean: **I can't deal with this, Bobby! I want my own room!

**Sam: **Me too!

**Dean:** I want surround sound, and a 40 inch plasma screen!

**Sam:** I want floor to ceiling bookshelves!

**Dean:** I want a bed that looks like a racing car!

**Sam:** I want a desk with lots of compartments, so I can sort everything alphabetically!

**Dean:** I want a fireman's pole down to the garage!

**Sam: **I want a ducted vacuum cleaner and a wired-in hair dryer!

**Bobby **(to architect): Will you excuse me a moment...

*he grabs each Winchester by an ear, and twists*

**Bobby: **I sent you idjits out to get some curtain samples, and look at foldaway sofa-beds. What the hell happened?

**Dean:** Ummmmm...

**Sam:** We got distracted.

**Dean:** By the lure of shiny, modern, streamlined bathroom furnishings.

**Sam:** And the charm of reproduction period fixtures.

**Dean:** And the warm, welcoming texture of slate tiles.

**Sam: **and the cool, soothing tones of blue-hued surface finishes.

**Bobby:** Well, you can sit down, and shaddap, or you'll both find yourselves residin' in a tent the next time you drop in to Nouveau Chateau Singer.

**Sam and Dean:** Sorry, Bobby. *they sit down quietly*

**Bobby (to architect):** Sorry about that. Like I said, worse than grand-children.

**Architect **(eyeing the Winchesters dubiously): Indeed. Perhaps we could move on to downstairs instead, for the moment.

**Bobby:** Right, right. Well, I was plannin' on a walk-in pantry, with corner storage units here and here. I want to leave plenty of room for a double-door refrigerator, and raised bench tops, a deep double sink... I was thinkin' wood panelling, rather than formica, and stainless steel marks up so easy...

**Dean:** We need space for an instant drink chiller!

**Sam:** We need space for a juice and smoothie maker!

**Dean:** Coffee bar! I want a coffee bar!

**Sam:** A vegetable storage nook with temperature and humidity control!

**Dean:** And an erotic mosaic on the floor, depicting an amorous couple cavorting with nymphs in thousands and thousands of tiny little tiles!

**Bobby (to architect):** Excuse me a moment.

*he grabs Winchesters by the ears again and throws them out with instructions not to come back until they have done some solid curtain research*

**Bobby:** I do apologise. Now, in the basement, I would like to put the laundry, a couple of store rooms, and a 'time out' room that absolutely, positively cannot be opened from the inside by two bickering idjits...

_FIN_


	5. Chapter 3

I have no idea what goes on at a tantric sex workshop, since I've never been to one. I've only ever been into an 'adult items' shop once – it was, in a rather astonishing way, quite educational. For example, the number of serious instructional videos was surprising (I wonder when 'Getting The Best Out Of Your Strap-On' will come out in Blu-Ray?), and the assortment of glass, um, items was just this side of frightening. No, scratch that, once the purpose of said items, said rather enormous-looking items, was explained to me by a very helpful staff member, they were definitely on the other side of frightening. Oh, yes, and one of them was shaped a bit like a rabbit. A deformed rabbit. Just imagine Nanny Ogg doing Deformed Rabbit; it looked a bit like that.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Three<strong>

"I have no idea why you've even bothered with _them_," sniped Sam when Dean returned from the workshop; he was still feeling rattled by some of the photos his brother had sent to him in the name of getting more details on the decor of Yogini Amanda's studio. He was starting to think that Dean had procured the yoga pants for the express purpose of messing with his head. "It's not like you plan to leave them on once you get there."

"I do too," countered Dean, "And you saw me wearing them yesterday, when we were doing those partnered stretches." Sam shuddered: that particular photo had contained some essential detail on a small statue, but it had also included Dean and one of his class-mates doing a yoga move that should not, in his opinion, be anatomically possible, let alone legal, even between married couples. With the lights out. "Although," Dean went on thoughtfully, "I can see that doing them naked could be an extremely interesting exercise..."

"You could've just worn sweat-pants," grumped Sam, cursing his brother for giving him yet another mental picture that he was not going to be able to evict in a hurry.

"Look, while I'm gathering intel on this job, I need to blend in," Dean told him. "I have to show willing, look like I'm really there to get in touch with my own feminine side."

"So far, looks to me like you've been getting in touch with everybody else's feminine sides," Sam snarked. "Not to mention, feminine fronts, feminine backs, and other feminine features..."

"Besides, the Living Sex God rocks these pants, Sammy." He waggled his feature adjudged his best by Natalie, Paula and Georgia at his brother. "He looks hot in these pants." He fished a pair of jeans out of his duffel. "However, as hot as I look in them, I'm not wearing them to any bar. With great power comes great responsibility – the Living Sex God acknowledges that. If I went out and unleased too much cosmic feminine energy in one place, members of the general public could be endangered."

"Your humility has always been one of your most attractive attributes," Sam observed tartly.

"False modesty sucks, Sam. All the ladies agree," Dean added smugly. "Amanda too. She says I'm raising the cosmic feminine energy in the room just by wearing them."

"Amanda? Is that what she's calling herself this year?" asked Sam, "Because while you've been raising your cosmic energy with your karmic hotness, I've been doing some more digging on the yogini running this workshop." He pushed a sheaf of notes across the small table. "This pattern goes back a lot further than we first thought." He tapped on a sketched map. "There's a trail across the country, of unexplained deaths in young, healthy women – cardiac episodes with no discernible cause – after they've attended a yoga workshop on tantric sex. The pattern is the same: the studio sets up, operates for some months, and then closes down. Right afterwards, one or two young women die, and she moves on." He pointed out the dates marked on the map. "Nobody's ever made the connection, so sometimes she barely moves across a county line, then opens up again, using a different name. I'm telling you, bro, she's got more aliases than us. I've been able to track her movements back to the 1940s, but the records available online covering before then get patchier. Of course, she had to call it 'feminine energy' back then. I think she might've migrated to the US from British India after World War I, which might explain how she came to know about tantric practises..."

"_What?"_ The Living Sex God's eyes bugged as he nearly choked on his own cosmic energy. "But that means... that would make her... she can't be more than thirty at the most! She's totally hot!"

"She totally a century old," Sam replied, with a small uncharitable stab of satisfaction at the look of horror that crossed Dean's face, "At least. It's definitely her – I found some photos. And it's not veganism, meditation or the surname 'Cullen' keeping her looking young. She's offering the shakti, the 'divine feminine energy', of the women in her workshops to two Mahavidya goddesses, Chhinnamasta, and Dhumavati. They're who the statues represent, and the scrolls are prayers to them, for requesting boons. Apparently, the goddesses usually take more than what a couple of the women can spare."

"What do these goddesses do, then?" asked Dean, "And are they hot?"

"Well, you could think of them as Kali's 'sisters'," Sam told him. "Chhinnamasta carries her own severed head, and Dhumavati is an ugly, elderly widow."

Dean groaned. "Oh, this just gets better and better," he sighed, dropping heavily onto his bed.

"Dhumavati's name means 'She Who Abides In The Smoke'," Sam explained. "That incense burner? A sort of conduit, to channel shakti to Dhumavati. That's why the smoke moved strangely, if you looked at it closely."

"Her altar," Dean said glumly, "That's the centre, the focus of her altar."

"Looks like it," Sam agreed. "We destroy the 'altar', the burner and the statues, we interfere with her 'arrangement'. Tomorrow is supposed to be the last day of the workshop; if we do it tonight, we just might derail her next 'shipment' to the Mahavidyas." _And possibly also avert the complete implosion of my visual cortex_, he added in the privacy of his own head.

"And I was really looking forward to tomorrow," sighed Dean, "And doing a group ritual to raise my kundalini..."

"Never heard it called that before," Sam muttered.

"It's a corporeal, libidinous force, sometimes referred to as 'serpent power'," Dean enthused, "It's the residual power of pure desire. Being the Living Sex God, of course, I have oodles of kundalini." he sighed sadly. "I'll have to cancel with Sally," he said wistfully, "She was going to come over tonight, and we were going to see if she could raise my kundalini..."

"I think we know what your 'study buddies' have really be interested in raising," Sam remarked, "And as for your kundalini, if it gets any higher, it's gonna need an independent oxygen supply." He reached for his gun. "Come on, we gotta go do this."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean grudgingly agreed. "Although I really think you should've come along too. It might've done something to get that stick out from up your chakra."

Sam scowled at his brother. "Dean, if you don't get your mind above your belt right now, I am going to shove your prana so far up your muludhara, your pingala little bindus will rattle. Just think what that would do to your kundalini."

Dean smiled as he checked his own weapon. "Maybe there's hope for you yet," he grinned.

**... ****oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo**** ... ****oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo**** ... ****oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo**** ... ****oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo**** ...**

Under cover of darkness, Dean shuddered as his flashlight picked out the small statues. "You bitches are even uglier after dark," he muttered, making his way to other end of the room.

The incense burner was still alight, the smoke rising from it in a jagged, uneven fashion, even though there didn't seem to be anything left fuelling it.

"Dean?" the voice of 'Amanda' the yoga instructor made him turn rapidly. "I thought it was you," she smiled, slinking towards him. She was still wearing the yoga pants that were her daily attire, and he had to remind himself that she was a century old. "What are you doing here?"

"I, uh, couldn't sleep," he grinned sheepishly, "Too much kundalini raising, maybe..."

"Your fourth chakra is unbalanced," she announced, "I can see it in your aura." She put a hand on his arm, and made to steer him away from the burner. "I have some tea that may help," she suggested, "It's very soothing. I can make you some. We need you bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow!"

"Uh-huh, gotta help the ladies get that shakti flowing," Dean smiled back.

"Exactly!" she beamed. "You've been a great help at this workshop. Now, this tea has valerian, chamomile and lemon balm in it, and I think you'll find..."

"We should probably put the burner out properly before we go," he suggested, turning back towards it.

"NO!" she screamed desperately, grabbing at his arm. "I mean, it's a vital part of the ambiance," she recovered, "It must keep burning until tomorrow..."

"To keep the shakti flowing?" asked Dean. "What happens if the burner is extinguished... Edith?"

The range of expressions that crossed the face of 'Yogini Amanda' would've been funny, if they weren't dealing with a witch. Finally, her eyes narrowed. "Hunter," she spat the word out as if it tasted nasty.

"Witch," Dean shot back.

"Ignorant man!" she hissed venomously, "Have you learned nothing of the power of the feminine Divine?"

"What I have learned is that you're abusing it and killing young women in exchange for tantric botox and turbo-charged anti-ageing therapy from two of Kali's sisters," he told her, "And anyone who's tangled up with relatives of that arrogant stuck-up cow is bad news."

"You dare insult the Dark Mother, here?" The woman who had been born Edith was half-scandalised, half-enraged. "You offend Kali-Ma with your very presence!"

"Not the first time I've done that," he said airily with an infuriating smirk. "She was hot, though, I'll give her that. Not just from the elbows down, I mean. Dat ass... but it's time to put a stop to your little scheme here. You'll just have to rely on sensible diet and regular exercise, like the rest of us."

As he reached for the burner, she raised a hand and he felt an invisible blow to his solar plexus drive the air from his lungs, and he stumbled to his knees. "You will not interfere with my offerings to the Divine Wisdoms!" she snarled. "You, who claimed to want to experience true feminine energy! When you insult the Divine Wisdoms, you insult all of Woman!"

"I can live with that," he wheezed, gasping for breath, "Won't be the first time I've had my face slapped."

"I will offer your suffering to them," she purred dangerously, "And they will welcome it, and prolong my youth!"

"Okay, okay," Dean coughed, "Just so long as I have their complete and undivided attention."

"You have quite an ego, don't you, Dean?" the witch laughed unpleasantly.

"Well, yeah," he agreed, "But I want them, and your, concentration on me. So my brother can do this."

Two shots rang out in the darkness. The two statues of the goddesses exploded into colourful ceramic fragments.

The witch's eyes bugged in horror as Sam approached, gun trained on her. "What have you done?" she asked.

"Disrupted your altar," Sam replied. "It's over, Edith. No more sacrificing the energies of young women to the Mahavidya."

"No!" she screeched, raising her hands and turning to Dean. Sam put two shots into her before she could do anything else. She fell gasping to the floor.

"About time you shot those damned statues," griped Dean, as Sam helped him to his feet, "Man, they were even uglier, once I stopped and really looked at 'em."

"If I'd used my flashlight, she'd have noticed me," Sam reasoned. "I had to work out where they were, then stand back, and shoot them."

"So, you groped a couple of seriously ugly chicks in the dark," mused Dean. "It's a start I guess. So, we'd better..."

A small movement in his peripheral vision caught his eye.

The witch was still alive.

She'd grabbed at something underneath the low table the burner sat on. It was a hairbrush.

She dropped it into the burner, where it caught alight with a flare of intense red light.

"The rude, arrogant Hunter who wanted to experience feminine energy," she croaked, spluttering. He realised she was laughing.

She kept laughing until Sam put two more shots into her.

"Wow, talk about hard to kill," Dean commented, prodding the corpse with a toe. "I wonder if it was because of her rejuvenation treatments."

Sam was scrabbling under the small table. "Hairbrush," he said urgently, "Hair. I'm betting it was the hairbrush used on you on your first day of the workshop." He found what he was looking for – the witch's grimoire. "Clever, a bit of back-up ammunition for spell-casting if she ever needed it."

Dean looked down at himself. "Well, it didn't work," he shrugged, "You ganked her before she could do it."

She did do something, Dean," Sam muttered anxiously, "She had your hair!"

"Nah," Dean dismissed his brother's concerns, "I'm still me. See? The Living Sex God, in all his devastatingly handsome glory." He smiled winningly.

Sam was having none of it. "Tomorrow we are heading straight for Bobby's," he said firmly, as they made the scene look like a robbery gone wrong. "To work out what she did."

"I think she cast a spell to turn my brother paranoid," opined Dean back at the motel. "What are you doing?" he demanded as Sam marched in with his duffel. "You got your own room, you might as well enjoy it. Shoo!"

"I'm staying right here," Sam stated grimly, "In case something happens."

"Okay, Francis the Mother-Hen," Dean rolled his eyes. "But I call dibs on the bathroom."

"Fine," grumped Sam, "But if you start panting in there, I will come in and throw cold water over you."

Sam thought about waiting for Dean to finish, but he was dog tired, so he decided to go straight to bed. He hadn't slept that well for the last few nights – the noises Dean and his 'study buddies' had made had been disturbing, even from the adjoining room. Dean liked to use up all the hot water, anyway, so he turned in. Jimi settled on his blanket, and was soon snoring, the gentle waft of relaxed lavender-scented Hellhound farting indicating that he'd found these last few nights disturbing too.

The two of them couldn't have been asleep for more than ten minutes when they were both suddenly roused by a high-pitched scream from the bathroom.

"AAAAARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!"

Awake instantly, gun and hellteeth at the ready, they were bursting through the bathroom door before the sound died away.

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice In Yoga Pants on the Exercise Mat Of Life!<p> 


	6. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"You know you scared the crap out of me, bro," complained Sam reproachfully, returning with breakfast.

"It scared the crap out of _you_? Huh! What do you think I felt?" snarked Dean, slouching grumpily into the cloudy water. Jimi sat by the tub, occasionally honking his squeaky pig toy in a show of sympathy for his Alpha.

"In the cold light of day, might it be possible that you over-reacted just a little?" pressed Sam with equal snarkiness – he had not been happy to be rudely awoken, his big brother screaming bloody murder, then sent out on an expedition in the middle of the night looking for a twenty-four hour store that stocked the required items.

"Hey, I look like a walking advert for bad leg tan!" snapped Dean, scratching at his knee and gesturing for his coffee. "I'm bright red! I look like I've been tie-dyed!"

"It's a bit of a rash, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes, "Clearly a contact irritation of some sort."

"That bitch did this!" he grumbled. "You were right, Sam, she did curse me! She's cursed the Living Sex God, because she was jealous of his mojo! She's given me Lobster Disease! More oatmeal," he instructed brusquely.

"At once, Your Living Sex Godness," Sam rolled his eyes, shaking more oatmeal into another pillow case, then tossing it into the water. "I really don't think this is a curse on you," he continued, "Because the irritation is very sharply delineated exactly where the waistband of your yoga pants sat."

Dean looked aghast. "You think she cursed my pants?" he asked. "She was jealous of my pants? That cow! Cursing a man's pants is just... wrong! She really was evil!"

"I think your pants were cursed by something in the fabric that you've reacted to," Sam told him firmly. "You should've washed them before you wore them. As per the instructions on the label – you know, the one that said 'Wash before wear'? And, might I add, it would've been a good idea to wash them at some point afterwards – you wore them for a number of days. No wonder they were chafing, dude."

"I'm gonna salt and burn those damned pants," Dean growled. "Now, let there be breakfast!"

"As per your specifications," Sam put a greasy bag on the tiled ledge, "Also, I have procured calamine lotion, antiseptic cream, anti-histamine, and, I quote, 'Dr Daniels' Old Time Painkilling Medicine'."

"Good," Dean accepted his food with a minimum of good grace, "I need to keep up my strength if I'm going to fight off the effects of that bitch's evil juju."

"Are you planning on getting out any time soon?" Sam enquired, a little more snidely than was completely necessary, "Or should I fetch more ass's milk, Cleopatra? A book, perhaps? 'War and Peace' suggests itself, or maybe 'The Lord of the Rings' trilogy..."

"No milk or books, Francis," Dean instructed through a mouthful, "But you can go and get me some pie. To keep my spirits up, whilst I am under occult attack by the effects of the evil cursed yoga pants..."

"I hope you get third-degree prune-up," huffed Sam, with a parting shot of Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean).

"I think she might have cursed me with emoness of the little brother," Dean confided to Jimi when Sam had left. "The thing is, if she did that, how would I tell?"

Jimi honked on Oinker Stoinker, and whuffed supportively.

**... ****oooooOOOOOooooo**** ... ****oooooOOOOOooooo ****... ****oooooOOOOOooooo**** ...**** oooooOOOOOooooo**** ...**

"We're going to Bobby's," insisted Sam when the Living Sex God finally dragged himself from his bath, "To figure out what that damned witch did."

"We know what she did," countered Dean, squirming carefully into a pair of sweat-pants, "She cursed my pants."

"Dean, she did not curse your pants," Sam grated out, "But she did something. We have to figure out what."

"She cursed me to turn red and itchy," Dean said, "To put a cramp in the style of the Living Sex God. So, where's our next job?"

"I'm not going on a Hunt with you potentially cursed!" Sam snapped. "What if we're in the middle of dealing with a revenant, or something, and you, you, you, I don't know, sprout antlers?"

"I'll charge him and impale him on my magnificent twelve-pointers," Dean grinned, "Because anytime is rutting season for the Living Sex God..."

"Will you take this seriously?" demanded Sam.

"I _am_ taking this seriously!" Dean was adamant. "I'm the one who's half red and half white – if I stand on my head, I'm a human pokemon ball! Or I'm a truly tragic Cardinals fan who takes his football far too seriously..." He peered at the packet of anti-histamines. "How many of these am I supposed to take?"

"Two every eight hours," Sam instructed him, "After food, and avoiding..."

Dean popped six into his hand, and washed them down with a mouthful of Dr Daniels' Capital Remedy For Everything.

"... Alcohol," Sam sighed. "You know, that's really not good for your liver."

"My liver is the biggest muscle in my body," grinned Dean.

"Your liver isn't a muscle," griped Sam, "It's the largest gland in the human body..."

He was about to launch into a lecture on basic anatomy when his phone rang. It was Bobby.

"Hey, Sam," he said, "What are you two chuckleheads up to?"

"Right now, Dean is experiencing some anatomical confusion," Sam scowled as he answered, "He doesn't seem to realise that the largest muscle in his body is actually between his ears..."

"How far away are you two?" Bobby wanted to know.

"A state line away," Sam replied, "And heading for you – we ganked a witch, and I'm pretty sure she laid some sort of curse on Dean, only there's no sign of what it is yet..."

"I'm suffering from an irritation," confirmed Dean, "I have a bad case of Sam, and it's a real pain in the ass, worse than haemorrhoids..."

"You best get that idjit here, then," sighed Bobby, "I was hopin' to get your help on a job in North Dakota."

"What sort of a job?" asked Sam.

"It's probably best if you just get here, and I explain it," was all Bobby would say. "But priority number one is you getting your brother here, and we'll see what she did."

"Okay, will do." Sam cut the call, and took the keys from Dean. "Nuh-uh," he said firmly, "If you've just eaten six of those with a JD chaser, you are not driving."

Dean muttered mutinously, but slid into shotgun. "You better look after my girl, bitch."

"I will." Sam started the engine. "Oh, and just a warning. If you do sprout antlers, I'm going to tie you to the fender."

The drive took most of the day. Dean spent several hours in an antihistamine-induced nap, waking up intermittently to make non-sequitur comments about the weather ("Zoomy, with a chance of frogs later"), the music ("I don't think that a bunch of hairdressers waving tentacles is really very yellow – pick something with more popcorn"), Sam's hair ("It's like a whole herd of tiny little tap-dancing yaks, making trunk calls to Sweden on a Tuesday"), the clerks at the gas stations ("Did you see the shower shoes on that pumpkin? That was totally giraffish!") and their destination ("I like Bobby's socks, but I wish his curtains didn't have so many, you know, eels. They're green, and creepy, and they go 'woo-woo-woo'.")

Sam was just contemplating putting him in the back seat, or possibly in the trunk, when Dean woke, yawned, stretched, and grinned.

"Ah, I feel better for that," he announced in an annoyingly cheerful way. "I think that stuff must have worked," he checked his waistband, "Because my irritation is just about gone."

"That's funny," observed Sam a little trenchantly, "Mine's been steadily getting worse all day..."

After a brief stop for dinner, during which Dean emerged from the men's room and announced that the Living Sex God was well on the way to recovering from The Curse Of The Totally Hot Yoga Pants, they pulled into Singer Salvage well after dark.

"So, what's this job that Bobby's got his panties in a bunch over?" asked Dean.

"He didn't say, said he'd explain it when we got here," Sam answered, "But we're not going anywhere or doing anything until we figure out what that witch did to you, and undo it."

"Another oatmeal bath should do it," grinned Dean, "Plus some of those pills, and of course Dr Daniels' Cure For Everything..."

They were still bickering when Bobby met them at the door, looking grim.

"Jesus, Bobby, what's wrong?" asked Dean. "Do I smell that bad? It's just the calamine lotion, I swear..."

_Thump_

He was interrupted by the sudden shudder that ran through the floor.

"Fuck!" Dean jumped, startled, "What the hell was that?"

"It came from downstairs," noted Sam. "Bobby," he asked anxiously, "What have you got in the panic room?"

_Thump_

"Nothin' that won't fix itself eventually," sighed Bobby, looking tired. "Look, just come on through with me, and I'll tell you what I know about this problem..."

_Thump_

They followed him into the living room, where only a single small lamp was lit. The sofa-bed was folded out; and it was occupied. As the Winchesters got closer, they saw that it was a man, too pale, with dressings covering one arm.

"He'll be out for a while, yet," Bobby told them, "Had to dose him with twice as much as either of you would take. His leg is the worst."

Sam stared in horror. "What the fuck happened?" he breathed.

"He was visitin' his brother, who lives just out of Ellendale. By the time I got to him, he wasn't in a state to say much," Bobby chuckled grimly, "But apparently it was something even bigger than him. Tore him up, and only stopped because it was interrupted by a passing cruiser..."

"Bigger than him?" Dean's eyes bugged in disbelief, and he looked back to the injured man. "_Bigger_ than _him?_ Jesus Christ," he mused, "What the hell is bigger than Andrew?"

"What do you think, ya idjit?" Bobby rolled his eyes. "It was another Old North werewolf."

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Tiny Little Yaks Tap-Dancing in the Luxuriant Hair of Life!<p> 


	7. Chapter 5

OMGWTFBBQ I has teh excitements! So many reviews! The Denizens are teh awesome! No wonder that damned bunny won't stop chattering its little head off now - even more annoying, now that Real Life and that pesky thing called 'gainful employment' keeps getting in the way...

For any Visitors, Lurkers or Droppers-In who might be passing through this story, in the Jimiverse, one of Jimi's sisters, Joni, was adopted by a Hunter that Dean can't stand. She's Ronnie, who happens to be the World's Crankiest Werewolf, and who is peculiar in being able to control her shapeshift. (She's short for a werewolf, just as tall as Sam when she shapeshifts, but she says she makes up for it by being sneakier, nastier and more treacherously vicious.) Andrew is her sometimes beleagered pair-bond. He's a very large werewolf indeed when he changes, but he hasn't learned much control of it yet - sometimes he gets stuck, and is banished to the living room, where he watches television and drinks beer (he has to shotgun them, because the cans are too difficult to handle with enormous clawed paws otherwise) and isn't allowed out until he's human again. Anybody who has read 'Wolf in Wolf's Clothing', the story describing how they met (produced after much pestering from some of the Denizens) - and also how Dean nearly pimped his baby brother out in order to raise money to overhaul the Impala - has met them both before, and is acquainted with Ronnie's crankiness...

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Five<strong>

"Another werewolf," Sam echoed blankly, "Another Old North werewolf. Another Old North werewolf, bigger than that werewolf." He jerked a thumb briefly in Andrew's direction.

"Apparently so," Bobby nodded. "The fact that Andrew was on two legs when this thing attacked him on four meant it wasn't that much of a contest."

"Are you sure?" asked Dean suspiciously. "I mean, bigger than him, maybe it was a werebear. Or a weresasquatch. Or a werehippo."

"Dean, there's no such thing as a werehippo," snapped Sam.

"There might be," Dean countered defensively. "Right, Bobby?"

Bobby scratched his head. "Nobody's ever reported a werehippo, not that I know of," he replied doubtfully.

"Well, that could be because they're so deadly," Dean asserted. "They don't leave any witnesses. I mean, ordinary hippos kill humans ever year, don't they? Just by charging at 'em. Imagine how much more dangerous a werehippo would be..."

"That's ridiculous!" Sam rolled his eyes. "How the hell would a werehippo get, well, were-ed?"

"Well, I don't know if you've ever watched one of these guys eat," Dean nodded in Andrew's direction, "But I reckon, if one of they got hungry enough..."

"You really are full of shit," humphed Sam.

"You've obviously never seen Ronnie versus a roast chicken," Dean commented, "It's not for the faint-hearted, not suitable for children, maiden aunts, or the clergy..."

"Anyway, there aren't any hippos in the US to start with," Sam said with finality. "They're native to Africa."

"It could've been a zoo escapee," Dean suggested.

"Dean..."

"Or an escaped pet," Dean went on.

"Have you been chowing down on antihistamines and JD again?" demanded Sam.

"Like, when it started to get too big and aggressive, somebody flushed it down the john, and it lived in the sewers, and got bigger and bigger, and..."

"That's alligators, ya idjit," Bobby interrupted. "And it was definitely another werewolf. I trust what his nose was telling him."

"So, what's he doing here?" asked Sam, before Dean could go on to develop his theory about a rampaging werehippo terrorising an entire county.

"He called me," Bobby replied, "Or, rather, the hospital he was taken to called me. He kept sayin' it was important that Bobby know. I went an' broke him out, got him away from there."

"Why?" asked Dean. "Looks like he's pretty badly torn up. He might've been better off staying there."

"Probably not," said Sam, "Sounds like he inadvertently strayed into a territorial clash with another alpha male. If he'd stayed within sniffing distance, it would've come after him, and finished the job."

"And gone through who knows how many humans to get to him," finished Bobby. "Besides, they're tough to kill. You boys know that. He'll heal up faster than either of you would."

Something occurred to Sam. "When did this happen?" he asked.

"A couple of days ago," Bobby told him.

"But that would mean..." Sam almost gasped. "The full moon ended a week ago."

Bobby smiled humourlessly. "Yeah, interestin, aint it? Another one with control of the shapeshift. Whod'a thunk it?"

"Oh, shit," groaned Sam. "That's why Andrew wanted you to know, so you could warn anyone going after this thing."

"Looks like it," Bobby observed grimly.

"So, we got a large, angry male werewolf on the loose, staking out a claim, and he can shift from two legs to four, and presumably back again, outside of normal business hours," Dean summarised, "Is that the job you wanted us to check out?"

"Hold yer horses there, boy," Bobby frowned, "You aint goin' anywhere until we figure out what sort of a curse that witch put on you. Besides," he smirked smugly, "I already got a couple of other guys to look into it, when Sam told me you were cursed."

Dean rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. "Et tu, Bobby?" he whined. "Look, I've been through this with Francis, she cursed my pants, but thanks to the magic of modern pharmaceuticals, and the time-tested healing properties of Dr Daniels Medicine That Fixes Everything From Stubbed Toes To Bubonic Plague, the Living Sex God is just about back to his awesome self..."

_Thump_

The Winchesters both jumped as the impact tremor reverberated through the floor again.

"Bobby, what is that?" asked Sam.

"He's got the werehippo down there," stated Dean.

"Not exactly," sighed Bobby. "I wasn't the only one the hospital contacted when Andrew was brought in..."

Sam's eyes widened. "You've... you've got Ronnie locked in the panic room?"

"It was a necessary precaution!" Bobby assured them hastily. "By the time she got here, she was so angry she could barely stay human! You know how cranky she can be on a good day – her teeth were already out, and those claw marks you must've noticed on the door frame were not from the Amway lady. When she saw Andrew, she lost it completely, and shifted. She was going bezerk..."

"Bobby," Sam asked carefully, "How did you get her locked up in there?"

"I may have indulged in a very small amount of necessary deception, for the greater good," Bobby actually looked sheepish. "In order to keep her from doing something she would regret when she calmed down, I may have told a very small untruth, out of concern for her own well-bein', you understand, she can't think straight when she's that riled up..."

"Oh, God," groaned Sam, "What did you tell her Bobby?"

"I, er, may have given her the impression that I had the critter responsible down there..." Bobby informed them.

_Thump_

"...Which may have resulted in her bein' just a little... disappointed in me right now," he finished. "In fact, I'd be grateful if you could go talk to her, see if you can get her to calm down a bit. She'll cool off eventually, but I'm worried that she'll hurt herself if she carries on like that much longer. She'll listen to you, Sam. Or your dog – she wouldn't ever hurt a hair on Jimi's head."

"Hey, what about me?" asked Dean a little plaintively.

"She'd probably eviscerate you just to use your intestines as a skipping rope," Bobby remarked.

"Wow – she's that angry?" Dean looked impressed.

"I mean normally; at the moment, she'd probably want to twist your head off and shit down your neck first," Bobby added.

"Oh." Dean looked momentarily nonplussed, then brightened. "Well, I'm sure we can talk to her, and get her to see sense," he said with conviction, "We just gotta appeal to her pair-bonded side, the nurturing female part of her: we tell her that Andrew needs her up here, and she's not going to be much help if all she does is batter down the walls, because then he'll just worry about her and not concentrate on getting better."

Sam stared at his brother. "That's remarkably... sensible of you," he finally managed.

"It's that feminine energy thing, Sammy," Dean smiled, "You just gotta know how to channel it."

_Thump_

The Winchesters made their way downstairs, Jimi trailing behind them. He pushed past to exchange a brief anxious greeting with his sister, Ronnie's dog Joni, who was pacing back and forth in front of the metal door, whining.

"Hey, Joni," Sam smiled and patted the dog as she came up to them, "Your Alpha's pretty riled up at the moment, huh?"

"Uh, Ronnie? It's us, Dean and Sam," Dean carefully opened the small port in the door. "Oh, man," he grinned, "Has anybody ever told you that you're magnificent when you're angry?"

The enraged werewolf within snarled at him.

"Oh, yeah," he kept grinning, "There's something really attractive about an assertive woman..."

"Er, Dean," Sam ventured, "Provoking a werewolf? Maybe not a good idea..."

"It's all that feminine cosmic energy you got going on in there," Dean went on with an infuriating grin, "It's making me feel all tingly from here..."

The monster threw itself at the door again.

"Whoa! And here I was, almost believing you when you told me werehippos didn't exist, Sam..."

"Jesus, Dean!" Sam hissed, "Whatever happened to appealing to her nurturing side?"

"Okay, okay, I'm getting to that," Dean flapped a hand dismissively, "Look, Ronnie, this isn't very becoming – anybody who saw you now might wonder if you were actually a werewolf, or something..."

He jumped backwards as long, clawed digits reached through the slot in the door.

"Look, the thing is, your pair-bonded mate is upstairs, and he really needs you to get it together and hold his hand while he gets better. He needs you, but not like this." The wolf subsided, glaring at him. "You're no use down here, bouncing around sounding like a elephant trying to krump – I mean, you gotta have a nurturing side somewhere, under all that hair..."

The wolf let out a ferocious roar.

"Dean, I think you should go upstairs," stated Sam, giving his brother a dose of Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled, Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted), "You're making things worse here."

"No I'm not!" Dean was adamant. "I'm appealing to her feminine nature! Although I'm starting to wonder if you have one, Ronnie," he called through the door. "Or if maybe that's the problem. You need some Midol and a wheat pack, or something? Chocolate cookies? Three pints of ice-cream? A DVD player and 'Beaches' or 'Thelma & Louise'?"

Sam was pretty sure the hinges shook under the next impact.

"Dean!" he snapped at his brother. "You are SO not helping! Go AWAY!"

"Well, it's not my fault if she's being unreasonable and hormonal," sniffed Dean disdainfully.

"Just... go back upstairs, and, and, and, help Bobby with something," Sam instructed. "I'll talk to her."

"Fine," Dean muttered, "Fine, one unreasonable bitch can talk to another one, that makes sense..."

When Dean was gone, Sam turned back to the door, and scrubbed a hand across his face.

"It's okay," he said quietly, "Mr Sensitivity is gone. You can talk to the responsible adult now."

A pair of grey eyes gazed narrowed at him.

"Yeah, I know, Dean, being his usual irresistible and charming self," Sam huffed. "I think he had his tact surgically removed when he was a small child..."

The monster barked in amusement at that.

"And he's never forgiven you for your dog being a quicker learner than his. He's a jerk. But the thing is, he's a jerk who's onto something," Sam went on, "Andrew is going to need you, level-headed and thinking clearly. Please don't be angry at Bobby, he only did this because he was worried about both of you. You know his motives are pure. So... is it all right if I come in and talk to you?"

A canine face can be extremely expressive. The one behind the door said, _The lock's on your side, pal, it's your call._

"Okay." Sam slid the bolt back. "But honestly? I'd be happier if you were shorter than me. And wearing clothes."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Ronnie followed Sam back upstairs ten minutes later.

"How you doin' there, madam?" asked Bobby carefully. "Do I gotta wear my silver chain mail shorts to bed tonight?"

"Oh, God, Bobby, you kinky bastard," leered Dean.

"All is forgiven Bobby," Ronnie said, trying for a wan smile. "Dean might want to borrow them, though..."

"I can't help it if you're completely immune to the suave charm of the Living Sex God," shrugged Dean, "It must be a werewolf thing."

"Sam, can I bite him?" she whined.

"Please don't," he told her. "We get enough dog hair in the car already."

"How about claw him?" she asked hopefully. "Just a little bit?"

"Not on Bobby's rug," Sam instructed. "Blood is very difficult to get out of natural fibres."

"How about slapping him?" she persisted. "Slapping a man who's insulted you is a very female thing to do. Pleeeeeease?"

"Only if you put on a corset first," Dean stipulated with one of his Olympic standard leers.

"I've got a better idea," Bobby interrupted. "No, on second thoughts, it's not a better idea than slapping Dean, but it is a different idea..." Dean let out a small squawk of outrage. "It's late, we're all tired, tomorrow Team Human has to figure out what the witch did to Dean – boy, if you mention those pants again, I will slap you myself, corset be damned – and Team Wolf will have its hands full with wound care. So, I suggest we all turn in, and resolve not to annoy, insult, provoke or disembowel anybody else. At least until breakfast."

"Sounds like a plan," Ronnie agreed with a yawn. "Me and Joni will bunk down with Andrew. As soon as he's fit to travel, we'll be out of your hair." Joni jumped onto the end of the sofa-bed, and made herself comfortable. "I reserve the right to fantasise about pulling a certain person's kidneys out through his ears."

"I'm not going to be able to sleep at all, knowing that you're fantasizing about me," moaned Dean.

Bobby slapped him upside the head. "It's really come to somethin' when the dogs are the only people in the house with any manners left," he griped. "Go on, bed time for everybody. Shoo. Don't make me come patrollin' with the wooden spoon."

"Ohhhhh, you dirty old man..."

"Git," was Bobby's final frowning instruction before he stomped up the stairs to his own room.

"You really can have all the subtlety of a charging rhino, you know that?" Sam scolded his brother as they turned in.

"She must have a feminine energy deficiency or something," shrugged Dean. "She probably needs her kundalini raised."

"Whereas you need your inhibitions raised, you jerk," Sam observed tartly, reaching to turn out the light.

"Good-night to you too, bitch." Sam could hear his brother grinning in the dark.

The beds at Casa Singer were familiar, and they knew that the place was safe. All three Winchesters were soon asleep, snoring gently until the warm light of a clear morning made its way tentatively through the curtains...

Sam yawned and stretched, letting himself wake up slowly. He peered at his watch; it was 7:00. On the other bed, Jimi curled contentedly at the end, while Dean was an indistinct lump under the covers.

"Hey," called Sam, not too loudly, "I'm gonna go downstairs, put on coffee."

A non-committal grunt emanated from the other bed.

"You awake enough to want breakfast yet?" Sam asked.

Dean sat up, yawned hugely, and scratched at his hair. "Morning, Sammy." He burped for good measure. "Yeah, breakfast sounds good bro, just none of your emo vego crap – serve yoghurt at your own peril, dude..."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

Ten seconds later, Bobby was rudely awoken by the screaming. Instantly awake, he headed for the Winchester's room.

"God's tits," he wheezed, bursting in, "Which one of you is murderin' the other... HUH?"

He stared, as bug-eyed as Sam.

"What the fuck's the matter with you two ladies?" demanded Dean, wondering why his hair felt so... scritchy.

Then he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and he screamed too.

Because the face staring back at him was not the handsome, devil-may-care visage of the Living Sex God.

It was Ronnie Shepherd.

* * *

><p>Aaaaaand a great big box of chocolate-coated internets to Darla, who saw this coming a couple of chapters ago. Huzzah! Yes, yes, lots of people have written girl!Dean, but (girl!Deanstuckinawerewolfbody)!Dean seemed like it would be present more scope for shenanigans. No silver chainmail underwear for you now, Deano... there may still be a requirement for custard poulticing of his rash by the end of this story, and no doubt Sam will be completely traumatised by whatever his 'big sister' does...<p>

Oh, yes, could I just take a moment to say to all those Denizens who keep sending me plot bunnies: curse you, breeders of evil rodents! *shakes fist*. Quite a few of you seem to want the Winchesters to head Down Under, plus or minus Ronnie, which could be quite a feat, since Dean hates flying and it's 24+ hours in the air. They'd have to go at least business class. And feed him lots of antihistamines. But he might think it was worth it when he got here, and discovered meat pies and Vegemite...

Reviews are the Bewildered Winchester Of Your Choice at the Breakfast Table of Life!


	8. Chapter 6

O Real Life, how annoying you can be!  
>Demanding my attention and my time,<br>My thought, and so much of my energy,  
>I really am much happier when I'm<p>

Afforded writing opportunity  
>To frolic in this place, the Jimiverse,<br>Where I may make the Denizens go squee  
>With writing scenelet interludes perverse,<p>

While steering Sam and Dean through silly spiels,  
>Intended to amuse, provoke a smile,<br>Perhaps to tie up Dean until he squeals,  
>Or shove Sam in a box for just a while...<p>

Though I must go to work to earn my pay,  
>I'd take the Jimiverse first, any day.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Six<strong>

Andrew woke up slowly, feeling stiff, and sore, and just about compos mentis enough to remember how he'd come to be where he was. Joni felt him stir, and yawned extravagantly before making her way to his side to give him her customary good morning snuffle. _I greet you, Alpha-mate_, she whuffed fondly.

_Affection._ He raised his less damaged arm to pat her happy face, and smiled. If Joni was here, so was Ronnie...

He carefully turned to take in the blanket-wrapped shape beside him, and prodded it gently. _Affection. Approval? _He vocalised the wordless query.

_Displeasure._ _Foolishness._ The answering rumble sounded strangely lower pitched than usual, but she was probably tired if she'd driven straight through to Bobby's.

"If I tell you I went down swinging, I didn't bare my throat, will you forgive me?" he asked, a bit raspy, and a bit plaintively.

Dean Winchester popped out from under the blanket, gave him The Killer Smile, and pecked him on the cheek.

"I'll think about it, you der-brain," Dean told him in a perfect northern Australian accent.

That's when Andrew started screaming.

Dean looked at him as though he was mad. "Jesus suffering fuck, pal," he drawled at Andrew, "If you wanted more painkillers, you only had to..." Dean caught sight of his own hand, then put that hand to his stubbled chin.

Then he started screaming, too.

Which is probably why they didn't notice the screaming happening upstairs...

"Jesus, Dean, what the fuck are you doing in my bed?" demanded Andrew. "You scared the shit out of me!"

"Me... me... my..." Dean gasped, staring at his hand. Then he caught sight of his reflection in a pane of window glass... "BOBBYYYYYYYYYY!" he howled at the top of his voice.

Andrew was preparing to put it down to the mind-altering properties of heavy duty analgesics, when he heard feet thumping down the stairs.

Ronnie burst into the living room with Sam and Bobby anxiously trailing behind, and Jimi at her heels. She was clearly enraged: her face bore a snarl, and her wolf teeth were trying to emerge.

The second she and Dean locked eyes, they flew at each other, and ended up with hands around each other's necks, each screaming in the other's face:

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING WITH MY BODY? !"

"Balls," pronounced Bobby.

****...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...****

"So I guess this means that we know what curse that witch put on Dean," muttered Bobby.

"Yeah," Sam agreed faintly as he watched his brother and Ronnie, in each other's bodies, stare at each other across the kitchen table. He'd been watching them for several minutes and was pretty sure that neither of them had blinked yet; his own eyes started to water in sympathy.

"Bobby," said Ronnie quietly, her antipodean accent sounding strangely incongruous coming out in Dean's voice, "Bobby, if you have any idea what the fuck has happened here, I for one would be extremely interested to find out exactly how badly this fucktard has screwed up..."

Andrew looked from Ronnie, to Dean, then back again. "Is this actually happening?" He asked good-naturedly, "Or am I concussed as well? Or is it the painkillers?" He blinked and peered hard at the physical body that was, most of the time, Dean Winchester. "Is that really you in there?" he asked curiously. The irritated growl he received as an answer was apparently enough to convince him. "Oh. Sorry, dear."

"Dean pissed off a witch," Sam began to explain, "And I was pretty sure she put a curse on him, I just wasn't sure exactly what it was..." He wondered vaguely whether, if he dropped a piece of bacon between the two body-swapped glaring individuals, it would sizzle.

"I thought she'd curshed my panths," muttered Dean, canine fangs trying to descend.

"Er, Dean," Bobby prompted, "Teeth." He waggled the fingers of one hand in front of his mouth to emphasise the problem. "Reel 'em back in, boy. Think happy thoughts."

"Oh, smart move, genius," griped Ronnie, "So why the hell have I been dragged into his stuff-up?" The corresponding lower jaw teeth tried to pop out of Dean's face.

"That's a damned good question," commented Bobby, "One that I intend to find the answer to, because we have the witch's grimoire, and Sam and I will be researching until we find out how to undo this."

"Good," she huffed bad-temperedly, "Because he clearly can't even keep his temper well enough to keep the teeth under control..."

"Ahem, pot to kettle, pot to kettle, calling in a Code Black, over," muttered Andrew pointedly.

"You think I did thish on purposhe?" Dean demanded, garbling slightly around the descended dentition.

"No," Ronnie smiled his own Killer Smile back at him, "I think you did it through breath-taking stupidity with no effort at all..."

"That's enough!" barked Bobby. "We got enough of a problem here without you two Freaky Friday idjits makin' life any more difficult than it has to be! You just both have a nice hot cup of calm the fuck down, right now – aint no point in you tearin' each other's carcasses to pieces before we can get you back where you belong."

"He's absolutely correct," nodded Ronnie, "We should just lock Dean in the panic room until you find a way to fix this."

"Look me in the... why the hell do I have to get locked away?" demanded Dean.

"Because you're the one who's in a body you can't drive!" Ronnie answered. "Do you know how to be a werewolf? I don't think so. What if you shift, and can't stop it, or get stuck half way?"

"Well, I'm a quick learner," sniped Dean, "And I've got two here who can teach me, including one who can demonstrate if necessary."

"What? _Him_?" Ronnie let out a snort of mirthless laughter. "Mr 'Four-Legs-Good-Two-Legs-Too-Hard'? Ha! When most women say to their other half, 'Are you going to change for dinner, dear?' they're talking about clothes..."

"Thank you so much for that encouraging boost to my self-esteem," muttered Andrew.

"Well, I'm not cooling my paws in the panic room," Dean declared rather sulkily, "And I think you'll find that I'm perfectly capable of..." a confused look crossed his face as he broke off, then he inhaled sharply.

"Dean?" asked Sam, concerned, "Dean, is something wrong?"

"No problem Sammy, I'm fine," Dean smiled reassuringly at his baby brother, "And there won't be any problems, just so long as Madam Maugrim here realises that..." his eyes widened, and he gasped again.

"Dean," Bobby said, "What is it?"

"Nothing," Dean bit out, clenching his teeth, "I just feel a bit..." he doubled over, clutching at his midriff. "Oh, fuck."

Sam was at his side instantly. "Dean, don't dick around," he snapped, "What is it?"

"It's probably just a side-effect of me trying to fit into a body that was never designed to contain so much awesomeness," he gave a wan smile as his face drained of colour, making the scar on the left cheek stand out, "Hey, you're even bigger, Sasquatch, I can see up your nose from down here..."

"Don't be an asshat, son," Bobby told him gruffly, "If somethin's wrong with you, we need to know. What's goin' on?"

"I don't know," Dean grated out, "One second I was telling Akela I'm not going to the naughty corner, the next..." he paused and winced. "It feels like I'm being stabbed from the inside."

"Where?" asked Sam. "Is this something to do with the curse?" he looked to Bobby. "Or something to do with, er, occupying a werewolf body?"

"I don't know," Bobby looked worried, "Maybe, but it could equally well be a perfectly ordinary medical problem. Somethin' triggered by stress would be understandable just about now."

"Ronnie?" Sam turned worried eyes to the woman currently inhabiting his brother's body, as Dean let out a groan, and doubled over again. "Have you been having any health problems recently? Stomach ulcers, maybe? Did you stop anywhere a bit substandard on the way here to eat? Could you have you eaten anything suspect in the last forty-eight hours, anything that might have been harbouring gastrotoxic bacteria? Have you had your appendix out?"

"None of the above, Sam," she replied with a put-upon sigh, her mouth twisting into an expression of exasperation, "But I'm pretty sure I can tell you what it is. All he needs is a cup of hot chocolate, and twenty minutes of me-time with a good book."

"What? Oh. _Oh_." Sam's expression went from confusion to reluctant comprehension to eleven on the WTF-ometer. "You mean, you're... he's..."

"I'm what? I'm what?" demanded Dean with another wince.

"You, er, you're, sounds like you're, uh, experiencing, er, many cultures regard it as a particularly powerful and mysterious feminine energy, Dean," Sam told him faintly.

"What it means is, you're going to enjoy some relaxing me-time, while Sam and I get on with the research," stated Bobby firmly, steering the shell-shocked younger Winchester towards the study. "Then you'll come and help us."

"Fine, fine," muttered Ronnie, heading for the refrigerator, "I'll put some more coffee on, too. You'll probably need it. Don't worry," she grinned wryly, "Two spoons of chocolate and a sprinkling of cinnamon. It never fails. I'll have him under your feet and getting in the way inside half an hour."

Dean stared at her as she bustled around the kitchen. "Are you going to tell me what the hell is going on?" he demanded.

She turned his own Killer Smile on him as she put a cup of hot chocolate in front of him. "Well, let me explain it to you the way my mum explained it to me," she said, "And I quote: 'Well, welcome to your glorious fucking womanhood.' You want marshmallows?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Thirty minutes later, Dean hadn't shown up in the study.

"He's probably lookin' at porn, son," Bobby grinned, as Sam let out a small annoyed huff. "At least it'll help him calm down."

"Well, I'm not going to get him," asserted Sam, with a small shudder, "Because one sight I do _not_ want burned into my retinas is Ronnie Shepherd's body leafing lustfully through Busty Asian Beauties, or leering at the screen while downloading screensavers from Hot Blonde Women Doing Unhygienic Things With Kitchen Utensils Dot Com, or whatever particularly pornographic page he's been using to clog up the laptop all week..."

Shortly after that, they both heard the groan.

"Shit, was that Andrew?" asked Sam, concerned.

"The guy was torn up pretty bad, Sam," Bobby told him, "Come on, let's get coffee, and we can check. He might need another dose of the good stuff, and I don't know if Ronnie brought anything with her."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

They found Andrew in one of the more comfortable chairs in the living room.

"I'm the one who got attacked by a werewolf, you know," he ventured, just a little resentfully.

"It appears that bein' mauled by a man-eating unnatural abomination sumbitch don't compare with this," Bobby sympathised.

Dean just moaned in reply. He had evicted Andrew from the sofa-bed, and lay on his side, curled up in his unfamiliar body, letting out intermittent noises of distress. Jimi sat close to him, honking soothingly on Oinker Stoinker the squeaky blue pig.

"Dean!" Sam was at his brother's side in an instant. "Dean, what's wrong?"

"Ohhhhh God," Dean moaned, fighting back tears as he squirmed deeper into the nest of pillows and cushions around him, "I think I'm dying..."

"No you're not, Dean," Ronnie said, coming in from the kitchen bearing hot water bottles, "Here, put this one on your front, and prop this one against your back..."

"You said you'd take care of this!" Sam said, radiating worry. "Did you make him hot chocolate?"

"Four mugs so far," she told him, rearranging cushions. "With whipped cream, and sprinkles. I'd be asleep by now! It's probably marshmallow-induced indigestion..."

"Oooohhhhhhhhhh," moaned Dean, clutching at his hot water bottle.

"Did you try reading, bro?" Sam asked Dean solicitously.

Andrew held up a book. "He chewed halfway through my copy of 'Guards Guards!'," he observed accusingly.

"Owwwwwwwwwwww," went Dean, sinking his teeth into a cushion.

"Canines, son," prompted Bobby, "Reel those teeth back in... oh, well, it's only polyester stuffing, I guess a little more fibre in his diet won't hurt him..."

"It's okay, bro, I gotcha," Sam soothed, patting Dean's shoulder, "We'll fix this, we'll find a way to fix this." Issuing instructions for more hot chocolate and hot water bottles, he started up his laptop. Ronnie and Bobby administered chocolate, refilled hot water bottles, fluffed pillows and made reassuring noises, while Andrew contented himself with baleful glares, as Sam's typed furiously.

"It says here that yoga can be effective," he ventured Sam tentatively, staring at the screen. "Maybe you can use some of the stuff you learned at that workshop - Bidalasana, the Cat pose, and Bhujangasana, the Cobra pose, are said to be helpful for relieving the discomfort of..."

"Discomfort?" hissed Dean, "Did you just use the word 'discomfort' to describe what is happening to me? Are you seriously suggesting that I am experiencing 'discomfort'? Did the Titanic have a little bit of paint scraped off the hull? Did Hurricane Katrina leave some inconvenient puddles in New Orleans? Is Rush Limbaugh a little bit miffed with the Democrats?" His voice started to become somewhat shrill. "This isn't discomfort, Sam! ? It feels like somebody is stabbing me from the inside! And before you ask, yes, I DO know what that feels like, Alistair was quite dextrous! It feels like my appendix is trying to stab my liver with my pancreas! It feels like yesterday's lunch is launching an escape bid with a blowtorch! It feels like my leg muscles are trying to go North for the summer! It feels like a Predator is trying to make a trophy of my spine! This is worse than childbirth!"

Andrew blinked. "Er, did he just say what I think he said?" he asked bemusedly.

"It's a long story," sighed Bobby, "Involving towels, hot water, and another witch's curse."

"The only yoga that's likely to take place here in the immediate future will be you, Sam, when I help you to assume the Little Brother Gets His Knees Wrapped Backwards Around His Head And His Feet Stuffed Into His Own Ears pose..."

"Right, no yoga," Sam consulted another page. "Er, this suggests that a warm bath with some lavender oil, or massage with clary sage, can be relaxing and soothing, and..."

"Sam, just because I happen to be inhabiting a female body at this moment does not mean that I want to turn into a total girl," growled Dean. "You try to massage me, you perv, and I swear, I will strangle you with your own hairrrrrraaaaaAAAAARRRGH..."

"Well, I'm not doing it," griped Ronnie, "Massaging myself with him in there would just be... creepy."

"I'll do it," grinned Andrew.

"Gaaaaaaah! Creepy hairy wolfy pervy man!" yelped Dean.

"Okay, okay," Sam tapped frantically at the keys, "Uh, it says here, some herbal teas can be helpful, it suggests camomile, ginger, peppermint, raspberry leaf, I think Bobby has all of these..."

"The only thing I'd want some stinky grass tea for would be to wash down a handful of pills," winced Dean.

"Right, er, a freshly prepared vegetable juice containing beet, carrot, cucumber and parsley is recommended by..."

"I don't want vegetable juice, Sam!" Dean informed him, sounding just a little shrill again, "I'm stuck in a werewolf, not a rabbit! I don't want soothing lawn clippings tea, or dolphin-safe massage, or organic yoga, or wholemeal chocolate with a high-fibre phosphate-free bedtime story, a remedy I might add which is ENTIRELY USELESS..."

"Much like this high-fibre, phosphate-free book is now," observed Andrew grumpily.

"Dean, I really think you're over-reacting," said Ronnie in an exasperated tone, "Okay, I usually feel a bit tired for a day or so, but you do realise, don't you, that this is a perfectly normal physiological event in an adult female body..."

"I'm not normally female!" wailed Dean, "I'm dying of female! Ohhhhh, this is so painful! And so embarrassing..."

"Look, it's only temporary," Sam pointed out.

"Then let's hope I only die temporarily," groaned Dean, "Again..."

"Uh, going for a walk is supposed to help," Sam read, "As is any form of gentle exercise..."

"I don't want gentle exercise, Sam!" Dean shrieked, "I want drugs! I want pharmaceuticals! I want pain-killing, mind-fucking, reality-altering drugs! Goodnight Moon, hold all my calls, don't make any plans for the weekend, wake me up about half past next week drugs! GET ME DRUUUUUGS!"

"If he wasn't using my body right now, I'd be voting for an overdose of something barbiturate," muttered Ronnie, "It would certainly put an end to my suffering..."

"Okay, okay! I'm on it!" Sam picked up the keys and his wallet, and fled.

"He's right, you know," Ronnie said aloud, "It's only temporary..."

Dean made an impolite suggestion regarding the insertion of a timepiece into an unlikely bodily orifice.

"You do realise," Andrew pointed out, "That she would in fact be shoving your own watch up your own ass, so to speak..."

Dean let out another howl of pain.

"Teeth, boy," Bobby reminded him urgently, "Get those damned fangs... oh, well, it's only mattress flocking, I just hope you don't spoil your dinner..."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

When Sam returned in a squeal of tyres and a spray of gravel, he hoped that the chocolate therapy might have had a chance to kick in.

"How's he doing?" he asked breathlessly. "Is the chocolate working yet?"

"I just gave him the jar and the spoon," Ronnie shrugged as she filled and wrapped another hot water bottle, "It was quicker that way."

"He ate the drinking chocolate?" asked Sam.

"Plus a jar of peanut butter, a jar of hazelnut spread, a packet of chocolate chip cookies, and a tub of ice-cream," she added. "If he makes my body explode while he's in there, I'll be even more annoyed..."

Sam pushed past her into the living room.

"Where else are you sore, son?" Bobby was asking.

"Yes," griped Dean miserably, clutching the hot water bottle on his stomach like a drowning man clinging to a lifejacket, "It hurts everywhere. It's getting worse. It hurts to move. It hurts to breathe. This is it, Bobby, I'm breathing my last as we speak..."

"I really don't think you are," Bobby suggested, "Unless you have some undiagnosed mint chip allergy..."

"I don't believe you," Dean sniffled, "But I forgive you for lying to me when you obviously just want to make me feel better. It's okay. Bobby, you've been like a father to me, more than my own father ever was. I want you to have my Desert Eagle, my jacket, and my 'Casa Erotica' compilations..."

"I'm back!" Sam came bustling in, looking anxious. He dropped to his brother's side. "How you doing, bro?"

"I'm glad you're back, Sammy," Dean's voice broke as he grabbed Sam's hand, eyes shining with unshed tears, "I want you to have the Impala, and my music collection, and my August 2008 copy of Busty Asian Beauties." He paused and gasped as a particularly bad spasm hit. "Look after my girl, Sam, and think of me when you change her oil, or find a condom wrapper under the seat, I love you baby brother..."

"Okaaay, that has to be the hormones talking," commented Sam, patting Dean's hand reassuringly. "It's okay, Dean, I got drugs! Look!" He pulled them from his pocket. "It's good that you've eaten something, so, you take two of these," he consulted the packet, "It says you can have two every six hours, with food, and avoiding..."

With a snarl, Dean snatched the packet away from Sam, popped six more out of the foil, and washed them down with a flask of JD he had somehow managed to secrete about his person.

"... Alcohol," finished Sam in a resigned tone.

"If you damage my liver irreparably, I will make you eat your own when we are swapped back," growled Ronnie.

"Thanks, Sam," snuffled Dean miserably, "I'm just glad you're here, bro, I didn't want to die before you got back, but I can deal, just knowing you're here now..."

"Dean," began Sam.

"Make sure she doesn't do anything with that devastatingly handsome body to defile the memory of the Living Sex God," Dean instructed with a sob. "Do everything you can to swap us back after I'm gone, at least let me leave an attractive corpse..."

"Thank you so much," muttered Ronnie.

"Look after Sammy for me, J-Man," Dean crooned tearfully to the dog, who squeaked Oinker Stoinker sympathetically. "I'll say hello to your daddy for you, and watch over you, and I'll Wait for you, just the way you would've Waited for me..."

"It's like being trapped in a waiting room with a bad soap opera on the TV," observed Andrew, "The script is about as cheesily awful as it can get, but you can't stop watching out of horrified fascination..."

"If you ever crash the car, Sam, salt and burn her, so she'll find her way to me," Dean sobbed, "Or I'll come back and haunt your ass..."

He rambled on like that for another twenty minutes before finally falling asleep. Jimi climbed onto the sofa-bed, and wormed his way into the nest of pillows, cushions and bedding to curl against his Alpha.

"See? I told you, you snore," Andrew pointed out a little smugly.

"Looks like the chocolate therapy finally kicked in," sighed Ronnie. "Crap, I am seriously unattractive when I do the whole anguished sobbing thing. I'm just glad I don't wear mascara..."

"It wasn't actually the chocolate," Sam showed her the packet of Night-time formulation Midol. "It's got a sedative antihistamine in it."

"I don't care if it's full of phenobarbital, at least we can get some work done now," observed Bobby gruffly. "We'll be in the study. I'd be grateful if you could keep the coffee comin', madam."

"No worries, I'll be in the yard," announced Ronnie, heading for the door.

"You got something to do with your truck?" asked Sam.

"Nope," she smiled grimly, "I got something I need to practice against a tree before I try it indoors – I want to get my aim in before I take a shot in the bathroom. Bobby will not be pleased if I leave puddles on the floor."

"You want me to come and show you how to hold it?" asked Andrew helpfully.

With a wince and a horrified squeak, Sam scuttled after Bobby.

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Hot Chocolate and 20-Minute Me-Time Interludes in the Busy Day of Life!<p> 


	9. Chapter 7

That was an actual quote from my actual mother: 'Welcome to your glorious fucking womanhood'. Apparently, she was never a fan of The Feminine Mystery, either. It's true, though, if the menfolk had to put up with That Sort Of Thing, the human race would've died out because they'd all demand hysterectomies when they hit 21.

And can I just say that I'm touched and humbled by the plethora of reviews the wonderful Denizens et al. have been kind enough to leave? Especially to knivespast, for the dialect correction. (Aeicha, you cannot put Andrew in your pocket. He's too big. And I have this terribly strange thought that he looks like Dave Mustaine. I don't know why.) Srsly, the plot bunny is emboldened by your encouragement.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seven<strong>

"She should be sleeping in the spare room," growled Dean over breakfast the next day.

"Dean, she's my pair-bond," Andrew tried to explain the next morning, "And she's worried about me. The... packaging isn't that important, she's her on the inside, she's my mate..."

"I don't _care_," growled Dean, "A man comes looking for coffee in the morning, the first thing he does _not_ want to see is himself wrapped around some other guy..."

Andrew sighed. "It's a wolf thing," he tried again, "An injured mate, there's this drive to stay close, watch and protect. I've had the same thing happen to me when she comes limping in from one of her Hunts..."

"She doesn't have to... look at you like that!" Dean insisted petulantly.

"Huh?" Andrew stared at him.

"You know, _look_ at you," Dean persisted, "_That_ way. It's... totally disturbing!"

"What Mr Manly Man here is tryin' to say," Bobby suggested, "Is that he is uncomfortable seein' the expression that the Livin' Sex God uses to pick up women directed at somebody who isn't female, even if it's not actually him in the body that's doin' it."

"Damn right," muttered Dean. "As if it's not bad enough being stuck in a body that's... it's... I mean, there's... and she's got... I had to shower with my eyes shut..."

"I don't know why you're bein' so squeamish about this, Dean," Bobby shrugged, "It's not like she's got anything that you haven't seen before."

"Bobby, I am a fan of the feminine form, but I don't usually encounter it when it's..." Dean waved his hands helplessly, "... closed for... routine maintenance..." He huddled deeper into the hoodie he had commandeered from Sam; Ronnie's smaller body nearly disappeared into it. "And as for... oh, God, those _things_..."

"Very useful items, I always found," Bobby told him in a matter-of-fact way, "They make a damned good absorbent field dressing, better than gauze, and if you spill gun solvent, they'll mop it up better than a piece of rag, and you won't get it all over your hands. Soak 'em in gas, they'll make an unbeatable fire-starter, even with damp wood..."

"Bobbyyyyy," moaned Dean.

"And I once used 'em to avoid burning myself on a hot ceremonial chalice – had to pick it out of the middle of a coven's altar. They weren't expecting that, heh heh, but I just stuck one on each hand, and grabbed that sucker. Derailed the whole ritual," Bobby went on extolling the virtues of feminine hygiene products. "The ones with wings are a great innovation, because you can wrap them around..."

"Bobby," pleaded Dean, "This is not a topic I want to hear discussed over breakfast..."

"I got my nose busted, one time," contributed Andrew, "But the MO, he just straightened it out and shoved half a tampon up each nostril, and it was..."

"Gaaaaaah!" yelped Dean, reaching for his coffee. "Will you stop it!"

"No need to be such a faintin' violet," Bobby clapped him on the back as they heard feet coming down the stairs. "Ah, let's see how the other party is coping. How did it go, with the, er, aim?"

"Bullseye!" announced Ronnie happily. "It's a really useful trick, the whole standing up thing. A definite advantage when the weather gets really cold, I'd think."

"Ohhhh, too much information," moaned Dean.

"The personal grooming seems to have been a reasonable success," Bobby went on.

"Sam's a very good teacher," smiled Ronnie, "I only got one tiny little nick."

"What?" Dean asked anxiously. "Where? Where? Let me see..."

"Under my, er, your nose," Ronnie wrinkled her top lip. "It's a bit fiddly."

"We'll have her shaving like a pro in no time," confirmed Sam.

"I just want to go on record as saying that I am totally unhappy about her having any sort of blade anywhere near my face," growled Dean, sinking back into the hoodie.

"Oh, stop your griping, or I'll practise on your legs," Ronnie grumped right back. "Speaking of personal grooming, you're gunna have to learn to do something with that lot." She waved a hand at the hair Dean had not really done much with. "Or I'll never get it untangled. Did you even brush it?"

"Yeah," Dean replied defensively.

"Well, stand a bit closer to the brush next time," Ronnie instructed.

"She's got a point, bro," Sam contributed, "You look a bit like the love child of Amy Winehouse and Don King..."

"I tried," Dean said. "It ate the brush."

"Don't be so melodramatic." Ronnie stood behind him and inspected her own hair. "Yuck! Did you even wash this lot last night? Did you use conditioner?"

"No, and no," grumped Dean, "Conditioner is for girly hair, like Sam's."

"Right now Dean, your hair_ is_ even girlier than Sam's," Bobby pointed out.

"So you're gunna learn to keep it under control," Ronnie asserted, poking around in the refrigerator. "After breakfast, we are going to play 'Hairdressers'."

"Why don't we just play 'Barbers', and get out the clippers?" suggested Dean.

"You even think about that," she replied evenly, "And I will give this concrete-clogged head of yours a zero buzz cut followed by a wet shave that will have everyone calling you Britney..."

"You wouldn't!" gasped Dean.

"I might not stop with your head, either," Ronnie treated a horrified Dean to one of his own insidious eyebrow waggles.

"Bobby!" demanded Dean, "Do something!"

"I will be," Bobby confirmed, pouring himself a coffee, "With my gigantic assistant here, I will be spendin' the next several hours tryin' to figure out how to undo this curse, because you two idjits are bad enough when you're in your own bodies."

"It'll be just like when Gammer Shepherd taught me to do my hair, when I was little," Ronnie sighed nostalgically.

"Your grandmother?" asked Sam, smiling, "Let me guess, she'd sit you on her knee, and brush your hair, and instruct you in Hunting lore?"

"Not exactly," replied Ronnie, "She'd sit me on her knee, and brush my hair, and if I moved or went 'ow!' because it pulled she whacked me with the brush... Ow!" she leaped up from the chair she had just sat on.

"You havin' grandma flashbacks or something?" asked Bobby.

"Simple wardrobe malfunction," supplied Sam, "Remember the pants hitch thing I showed you, just as you sit down..."

"I always wondered why guys do that," she muttered, tweaking her pants before sitting down carefully, "Beats me why somebody hasn't designed a pair of trousers that lets you sit down without worrying about possibly compromising your ability to breed. So, Dean, I think we'll start with Ponytail 101, then move on to the plait..."

"I hate you," muttered Dean, getting up, "And I am not sitting on my own lap. That would just be... weird." He stomped noisily up the stairs.

"I'll sit on your lap," Andrew grinned.

"Please wait until Dean comes back down," pleaded Sam, "I want to see his face."

"Don't go provokin' the boy," instructed Bobby, "I don't want him eatin' any more of my cushions."

Sam was following Bobby to the study when the angry shout drifted down to them.

"HEY! Which one of you assholes left the seat up?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When Sam emerged from the study in search of a particular book, the silence from the living room worried him. There had been the odd yelp, and the occasional threat of hairbrush-whacking, but it was now quiet. Almost too quiet...

"Er, you look a lot tidier, Dean," he confirmed, when he looked in. "Very nice."

"Thanks, Sammy," grinned Dean. "It's actually kinda relaxing." His hair was in a single braid, and he was practising on Andrew. The male werewolf had half a dozen other braids, and was wearing the sort of expression that Jimi usually had when he was being told to get into the bath.

"Outside to the middle, watch your tension, that's it," encouraged Ronnie, "You've got it."

"I'm supposed to be recuperating," muttered Andrew. "I already got attacked by a werewolf. No fair sooling another one onto me..."

"Be quiet," ordered Ronnie, "This is much easier to learn on somebody else before you try to do it on yourself."

Jimi sat watching, honking general encouragement to all parties with Oinker Stoinker.

"You look very nice too, Andrew," grinned Sam. Andrew flipped him off.

"This could be useful, Sam," said Dean, "I'll be able to do your hair for you!"

"Not quite long enough for braids, bro," Sam replied, inwardly sighing in relief.

"Possibly not a long braid, no," Ronnie looked thoughtful.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You took your time with that book, son," Bobby commented when he heard Sam come back into the study, "Was it not where I thought it wa... God's tits!" He peered more closely. "Sam," he asked carefully, "What happened to your hair?"

"Them," huffed Sam, scrabbling at the back of his head, "Dean grabbed me, Andrew sat on me, and Ronnie did.._.that_. It's called 'French braiding'. Will you get the damned hair tie out of this for me?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Any progress on the curse?" asked Ronnie when Sam and Bobby emerged in search of coffee, food and, in Sam's case, a brush.

"We think we might have, er, worked out... what are you doing?" Sam found himself stumbling to a halt at the incongruous sight before him.

Ronnie cocked an eyebrow at him. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"I told her to stop already," growled Dean, brushing out one side of his hair and practising his braiding, "She's just doing it to mess with my head. No man wants to walk into a room and see himself knitting."

"I suppose I could get on with designing a pair of hitchless trousers," she said thoughtfully. "Harem pants would probably work quite well. Be comfy, too..."

"You even think about it, and I'll go find something in Bobby's panto dame box," warned Dean. "Something with tassels..."

Ronnie gasped. "You wouldn't dare!" she hissed.

"Tell me about the tassels," prompted Andrew. Ronnie snarled at him.

"If we could just stop with the threats of sartorial terrorism for a moment," interrupted Bobby in a long-suffering tone, "We think we've figured out why this happened. "

"The last thing the witch said," Sam explained, "She said, 'The rude, arrogant Hunter who wanted to experience feminine energy'. She specifically used the word 'Hunter'."

"There's a strong notion of retributive karma in her rituals and spells," Bobby went on, "Sort of cosmic comeuppance. We think she cursed Dean to swap bodies with, basically, the next female fugly he encountered afterwards..."

"Ha! I knew this was your fault!" Dean barked triumphantly at Ronnie. "For being a werewolf."

"Er, there's more to it than that, bro," Sam took up the explanation, "It wasn't just the encounter – it was the next female fugly that you insulted."

"It was more malevolent than just a body-swap," Bobby pointed out, "She wanted you to swap with a female big bad that you were Huntin', then your brother here would gank it, only it would be you, and he'd be left with the female fugly in his brother's body."

"So, if Dean had just minded his manners, it never would have triggered," summarised Ronnie.

"Pretty much," Bobby agreed, "Which means, it was inevitable."

"Um," went Dean, having the grace to look a bit sheepish.

"Well, at least we know the why," sighed Ronnie, "Have you figured out the how, yet? Specifically, the how to undo it bit?"

"Not yet," Bobby told her glumly. "This was a powerful witch, messin' with some seriously powerful mojo. Despite what your body's current occupant may think, cosmic female energy is not something to go messin' with lightly. Being males tryin' to undo this, we gotta tread lightly. It's very important we don't insult the Mahavidya." He gave Dean a sideways look. "Which means, it may not be a good idea to have him trying to 'help'."

"The karmic nature of this sort of curse, there's most likely some way for Dean, the focus of it, to reverse it," Sam said, "That's probably our best bet. We just have to figure out what the trigger to dispel the curse is."

"Any ideas at all, Einstein?" pressed Dean.

"Not yet, bro, but we're working on it," Sam assured him.

"Whatever it is, you can bet it will be something that you will not enjoy," Bobby told him grimly.

Dean groaned, dropping his face into his hands. "Great. Just great," he moaned, "So I'm stuck in this body, doomed to get in touch with my feminine side, until Frankenstein and Igor can figure out how to fix it." He looked around plaintively. "What am I supposed to do until then?"

"I can teach you to French braid your own hair," suggested Ronnie, needles clicking, "Or how to knit. You'd be amazed at how much you save on winter woolens. And it's kind of relaxing, strangely enough."

"Teeth, son," Bobby prompted, "Pull your teeth in..."

Dean was about to tell Ronnie exactly where she could shove her knitting needles when Bobby's cell rang. He took the call, looking grimmer by the minute.

"Bobby, what's wrong?" asked Sam as the old Hunter put his phone away.

"That was Dan," he told them sadly, "One of the guys I sent after the wolf that attacked Andrew. Well, it was a nurse using his phone, anyway."

"What happened?" asked Dean.

"He's in ICU," Bobby said, "Sounds like the damned thing turned the tables on them."

"He gonna be okay?" Andrew queried.

"Most of him," Bobby sighed, "They're not confident that they've saved his arm, but... Scott is dead. Mauled by the same 'wild animal' that's attacked and killed two more people in the past few days. From the wounds and the damage done, there's talk of a Grizzly on the prowl in the area, although a wildlife ranger who barely escaped in an SUV swears it was a wolf." He suddenly looked tired. "Balls. Those two were good. Damned good. Taken down Old North monsters before."

Dean got to his feet. "Ronnie, I need you to pack me a bag, and give me some of your best silver rounds," he instructed. "Sam, get your stuff together. We got us a Hunt."

* * *

><p>A bit of a self-insertion there; I used to get whacked with the brush if I moved or squawked while my hair was being brushed. Why people insist of having their small girls grow long hair is beyond me. Oh, and the tampon-up-the-nose thing? My husband had his nose fixed that way in the army; MOs really do that. Although that might be more information than you were really after.<p>

Reviews are the Hairbrushes of Relaxed Abandon on the Dressing Table of Life!


	10. Chapter 8

**Dean: **I want my own body back, right now.

**Lampito (giggling giddily):** Are you kidding? The Denizens love it! They love you! They love meeeeeee! *swoon*

**Sam:** It really would be healthier for you to seek your self-validation elsewhere, you know. Somewhere out in Real Life.

**Lampito: **Shut up! I've had a call to put a curse on you, you know – I'll switch you with, with, with Leahelisabeth's teddy bear!

**Sam:** Being a teddy bear might not be so bad...

**Lampito:** And she will alternate between snuggling you and stuffing you in a shoe box!

**Sam: **Aaaaaargh!

**Dean:** Swap me back, you weirdo! Right now!

**Lampito:** How would you like to spend a day or two as Bartlebead's shower loofah? Or PaulatheCat's scratching post? Or aeicha's hot water bottle?

**Dean: **Aaaaaaargh!

**Lampito:** Meggin Lane's mattress! SeaGlassGreen's paint chart! Georgia's beanbag chair! Or... a beanie doll toy? Beanie Deanie! Bwahahahahaha!

**Dean and Sam (clutching each other):** AAAAAARRRGH!

**Lampito:** Now be quiet, or I shall teach Ronnie the 'Pudding!' dance.

**Sam (snuffling):** She's mean.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eight<strong>

"Now, just hold your horses, boy," instructed Bobby, "This thing's already mauled two of the best Hunters I could've sent after it; you goin' off half-cocked, in a body that's not even yours, will just end in more of the same. You can't even keep your teeth from poppin' out when you get angry."

"So, I'll wear a scarf," Dean stated, "And we'll tell anybody who asks that I'm a practising Muslim."

"It'll never work," snorted Sam in amusement, "Any Muslim woman who wore a niqab to cover her face would also wear a hijab and chador, head to toe. And we'd have to leave Jimi behind, because dogs are unclean. Then, the first time we go for breakfast, you won't be able to resist stealing the bacon off my plate. And no bacon cheeseburgers for lunch? You wouldn't last a day. Plus, alcohol is haram. Forbidden. And such a traditionally observant woman would defer to her male guardian, which in this case would be me, her brother, in all things, including letting him drive." He looked thoughtful. "Actually, the idea of having you as a female traditionally observant of Islam does sound kind of appealing – have you ever thought about gender reassignment, and studying the teachings of the Prophet?"

"This body has taken down alpha males hand-to-hand," Dean pointed out, glaring at Sam, "Right, Ronnie?"

"Technically, yes," Ronnie agreed, "But that was with me driving it. You can't even control your teeth, let alone the shapeshift. Even if you did, you'd just go at it, one testosterone-impaired lunkhead against another – and you'd last about as long as a Belieber at a Slayer gig."

"Bobby's right, bro," Sam echoed, "We can't go running off after this thing without knowing anything about it."

"We know it can control the shapeshift," Dean shot back, "And we know it's killing people."

"So, how do we track it before it tracks us?" Sam countered. "What's his MO? What's his motivation? What's his pattern? Where's his weakness?"

"Fine," growled Dean, "Fine, you ladies can all sit here and wring your hands and flutter your fans, me and Jimi will go and take care of this fugly..."

The quiet growl that Andrew let out took Dean by surprise, bypassing the outrage centre of his brain and going straight to his legs.

_Submit._

Dean found himself sitting heavily on a chair, blinking in confusion.

Sam burst out laughing. "He's an alpha male, dude," he laughed. "Hey, does that work on Ronnie?" he asked curiously.

"Would you expect a gentleman to tell you?" answered Andrew primly, as his pair-bond smiled affectionately at him.

"Hey, hey, stop it! STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!" demanded Dean, "Don't you sit there smiling at him with my face like you're thinking about what the pair of you got up to last Saturday night..."

"Oh, it didn't work last Saturday night," said Andrew matter-of-factly, "In fact, if you're feeling a slight twinge in the backs of your thighs, it could be from when she..."

"Aaaargh!" yelped Dean. Jimi hurried to his side, squeaking Oinker Stoinker soothingly. "Too! Much! Information!"

"Excuse me?" said Sam incredulously, eyes wide, "Excuse me? Did I just hear the Living Sex God complain that the details of somebody's, er, private life, constitute too much information for his delicate sensibilities?"

"Best get on with the knittin', there," Bobby instructed Ronnie, "Because Crowley is goin' to need his winter woollies while Hell is freezin' over..."

"We really are going to have to come up with a plan to tackle this one, Dean," Sam pointed out.

"Okay, then, we got Jimi, and if Ronnie and Joni come with us..."

"No." Ronnie spoke quietly, not looking up from her knitting. Sam couldn't help but smile at the expression on her face – it was Dean's 'Do Not Fuck With My Little Brother' face – and the brief rumbling exchange she swapped Andrew. _I will not leave my mate._

"She won't go anywhere while he's here and damaged, ya idjit," Bobby rolled his eyes. "It's a wolf thing. Look, how's about I get on with the curse research, and Sam can spend some time checkin' out how this big bastard operates, then once we undo the curse, you can go turn him into an attractive throw rug."

"How long will that take?" demanded Dean.

"It takes as long as it takes. I told you, boy, we gotta tread carefully on this one," Bobby frowned, "We don't want to make it worse..."

"Worse? Worse?" Dean echoed in disbelief. "I'm stuck in a werewolf body, a female werewolf body, a midget female werewolf body, that tried to commit suicide by mysterious female energy yesterday, the damned teeth have a mind of their own, the hair is a nightmare, I have to deal with, with, with those _things_ with wings, do _not_ get me started on how damned annoying foundation garments are, and you bastards all leave the seat up, AND none of you change the TP roll when it runs out, how the hell could it be _worse_?"

"I could stick my tongue in her ear," suggested Andrew, carefully putting an arm around Ronnie. "Wanna watch?"

"Gaaaaaaah!" squawked Dean. "Stop it! No hand-holding! Not with my hand! Not cool!"

"Hey, this is no walk in the park for me, either," Ronnie replied, "Shaving is a pain in the neck! And I just do myself an injury if I forget to hitch my pants when I sit down. No wonder you lot fold up when you get kicked in the nads. And on the topic of hair? I woke up looking like a toilet brush. And don't you whine to me about a body with a mind of its own – this one scared the hell out of me this morning. I had to whack it with the hair brush before I could take a leak..."

"Er, teeth, son," prompted Bobby.

"I hate chyou all," muttered Dean, "I hate chyou all sho mutsh... don't chyou dare kissh him, you ashhole!"

"Spoilsport," pouted Ronnie, turning back to her knitting.

"So, Sam can get on with the intel," Bobby announced, "While I get on with curse reversal."

"Why don't you go spend some time with your car?" suggested Sam. "You know, just a couple of girls hanging out together..."

"Bitsch," sniped Dean on the way out.

He was in a more thoughtful mood later, when he came back indoors that evening. He found his body fussing about the kitchen, wearing an apron and...

"What the fuck is that?" he demanded.

"What?" Ronnie asked, mystified.

"That thing on my head!" Dean pointed accusingly, "What is that thing on my head?"

"It's a scarf," she shrugged, turning back to the stove, "It keeps my hair out of the way, and out of the food."

"I look like a damned pirate!" he snapped.

"Nah, you're too pretty to be a pirate," she smirked. "In fact, I feel prettier than I ever have. I feel pretty," she sang, "I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty, and witty, and gay..."

"Well, take it off, Maria!" he bristled, "Before anybody sees you being me!"

"Too late, I already got a picture," grinned Bobby, coming into the kitchen, "How did the Girls' Day Out go?"

"I stripped the thread on the sump," griped Dean, dropping into a chair, "I had to put a helicoil into it."

"Heh heh, gave it a bit of werewolf elbow grease, then?" chuckled Bobby. "Mmmm, something smells good. You're very domestic when you feel like it, madam," he commented.

"Gotta keep the researchers fed, and Mr Alpha Male will heal up faster if he eats well," Ronnie stated, then frowned at Dean. "Oi, have you got oil in my hair? Yuck! You make damned sure you wash that out. And use conditioner this time."

"I still vote for a buzz cut," griped Dean.

"You do that, and there'll be no pie for you," she threatened, waving a spatula ominously.

Dean's face took on the most hopeful expression he'd worn for two days. "You made pie?"

"I made pie," she confirmed. "You wanna eat the pastry trimmings and lick the bowl?"

Dean was happily scooping up the remaining traces of filling when Sam came into the kitchen looking grim. "He's killed again," he announced without preamble, "I was just checking a local news site, and there's been another victim. Same wounds. They're calling in animal control experts, and have started testing victims for rabies. Andrew will probably get a call."

"Balls," muttered Bobby.

"How far off undoing this curse are we?" asked Sam.

"Not makin' a lot of progress, I'm afraid," admitted Bobby. "It could take some time before I get your brother back to his usual handsome, Livin' Sex God, unquestionably male self."

"I've been thinking about that," Dean piped up, gesturing with the spoon. "Two Hunters have already tried to gank him, and come off second best. He's the dominant male type – that's why he attacked Andrew. I'm betting all his victims have been males, yeah?"

"Well, yeah, so far," Sam agreed.

"So, I was thinking, maybe we need to try something different to draw him out," Dean went on. "He has control of the shapeshift, he chooses male victims, so he's thinking about what he's doing. Maybe, if a female werewolf went in there, not to attack him, but to distract him, she could get in under his guard."

"That won't work," Sam pointed out, "Ronnie won't go with us – an Old North werewolf won't abandon a wounded mate." Ronnie nodded.

"However, we just happen to be in a freaky situation that may let us get around that," Dean smiled his most winning smile. "We go hunt this fugly, I distract him with my overpowering cosmic feminine energy, then we gank him!"

Sam stared at his brother. "Your... overpowering cosmic feminine energy?" he repeated. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?"

Dean nodded. "Hey, I spent a whole workshop learning about channelling my shakti, and raising my kundalini," he reminded them. "If I go around shedding female pheromones and general awesomeness, I can draw him out with my potent allure, deceive him with my feminine wiles, and then, whammo!"

"Bobby," Sam began in a worried voice, "Bobby, I think the curse is doing something strange to his brain..."

"We've been over this already," Bobby told him, "Things go south, you're in a world of hurt if you're on two legs and he switches to four."

"Couldn't agree more," nodded Dean, "Which is why, first thing tomorrow, Ronnie is going to start teaching me to be a werewolf!" He smiled his most winning smile.

"I don't know if I can," she said doubtfully, "It took me years to teach myself to do it."

"So, this body knows how to do it, yeah?" reasoned Dean. "All you gotta do is teach me to flip the switch!"

"It might work," Bobby mused.

"We gotta do something, Sam," stated Dean, "This asshole is killing people – if he moves on, it could be weeks before we pick up his trail again."

"Okay," sighed Sam, "Give it a try. Just... try to keep your potent allure and feminine wiles to yourself."

"Oh, I won't need to use 'em on you, Sammy," Dean grinned, "You just do what your big sister tells you, and everything will be fine."

"Big sister?" Sam grinned down at him, "You're kind of endearing like this, you know – it's like concentrated Dean: even shorter, but even bossier. You want me to get you a stepladder, so you can lecture me?"

"I don't foresee your height being a problem, Sasquatch," Dean grinned right back, "I'm sure I can cut you down to size."

Before Sam had time to yelp, Dean grabbed one of his arms, twisted, bent his knees, and...

"Hey! HEY!" Sam yowled, "Put me down! Jerk! Bobby! BOBBY!"

"Werewolf elbow grease," Bobby shrugged.

"Big sister knows best, junior," Dean told him, settling Sam into a more comfortable fireman's carry and heading for the living room. "Ow," he winced a little at the twinge in his legs, "I think I've figured out what they might've been doing last Saturday night..."

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><p>It's true. SOMEBODY thinks I pick on Dean in my stories, and wants me to curse Sam. I afflicted him with deaged Bobby and Dean in 'You Gotta Be Kidding' - didn't that count as Sam whumpage? Plus, I've turned him into a wolfhound. And a gargoyle. And tore his clothes off, in more than one story. And scared him with a nudist retreat. And he ends up being generally traumatised and imposed upon every time Dean gets into, ahem, a situation. Does anybody else think I pick on Dean? What sort of curse would Sam stumble into? He's supposed to be the smart one...<p>

Reviews are the Delicious Unexpected Pies on the Living Room Table Of Life!


	11. Chapter 9

If there are any Denizens of an artistic bent (and we know that they are out there) who would like to draw Ronnie in her Dean-suit, complete with scarf and apron and oven mitts in the kitchen, I'm sure that it would be well received. (Extra chocolate-coated internets if you can get Dean in his Ronnie-sut - an angry-looking Amelie Mauresmo type - in the background).

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><p><strong>Chapter Nine<strong>

One of the good things about staying at Bobby's was that it was often one of the few opportunities that the Winchesters had to sleep soundly, and in fact sleep in. Not always, of course; sometimes they had to deal with a job, like now, when Sam got up to do further research on the habits of the werewolf they were going to track down and gank.

Or that time Dean pissed of a witch, and ended up thinking that he was a dog.

Or that time Dean pissed off a witch, and ended up feeling pregnant.

Or that time Dean pissed off a witch, and fell in love with the first woman he saw (it had turned out to be Ronnie).

Or that time Dean pissed off a witch, and she turned Jimi into a Persian cat with a delicate digestion.

Or that time Dean pissed off a witch, and Sam actually did sprout antlers.

Or that time Dean pissed off a witch, and his beloved Impala turned into a pink Prius (he hadn't slept at all when that happened).

Or that time Dean pissed off a witch, and she made him allergic to alcohol.

Or that time Dean pissed off a witch, and butterflies mobbed him whenever he set foot outdoors.

Or that time Dean pissed off a witch, and she made his little brother invisible – but only to him.

Or that time Dean pissed off a witch, and the curse meant he couldn't actually just walk anywhere, he had to tap-dance.

Or that time Dean pissed off a witch, and he actually pooped rainbows for a week.

Or that time Dean pissed off a witch, and she turned him into a compulsive home-maker; Bobby hadn't minded the cooking of breakfasts, the fluffing of cushions, the scrubbing of floors, the vacuuming of furniture, the laundering of every piece of bedding in the house, the darning of socks, the cleaning of the oven, the ironing of his shirts, the baking of cookies, or the dusting of light fittings, but the triple starching of his shorts had been where he'd drawn the line.

Or that time that Dean had pissed off a witch, and she gave him a case of swine pox, a disease usually only found in pigs.

Or that time Dean had pissed off a witch, and for a week every time he looked in a mirror, he saw a billy goat. With a hard-on.

But sometimes, at Casa Singer, they got to sleep in. And when that happened, Dean liked to take full advantage.

Which is why he was so annoyed when the door to the Winchesters' room banged open.

Seeing himself stride in wearing nothing but a towel did nothing, in his opinion, to improve matters.

"Aaaaaargh!" he yelped, clutching the bedclothes to his chin, "What are you doing in here?"

"Looking for something wearable," Ronnie told him, as she began to sort unceremoniously through his duffel. She paused, and eyed him curiously. "What are you doing?"

"Go away!" Dean extracted a hand and flapped it at her. "This is my room!"

"That's why I'm here," she shrugged, "Hoping to find something to wear that doesn't smell like it has a biological weapon growing in it..."

"I'm not dressed!" he hissed angrily. "And neither are you! Get out!"

"Dean, you're wearing my PJs, and that's my body you happen to be using right now," she sighed in a put-upon fashion. "And this is your body I'm wearing. Neither of them has got anything we haven't both seen before."

"I left stuff out for you!" he snapped.

"It crawled away before I could put it on," she replied tartly, inspecting another shirt. "Ew!" She poked tentatively at a pair of shorts. "Have you actually done any laundry in the last twelve months?"

"I'll yell for Bobby!" he threatened.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she sighed, "Look, I'd have asked Andrew to come up, but I don't think he'd manage the stairs very well..."

"Don't you dare let him in to look at me in this body!" yapped Dean.

"Aha! Success!" Ronnie retrieved a number of items that apparently met her more stringent criteria for 'wearable', and began to dress.

"AAAAAAAARGH!" shrieked Dean as her towel hit the floor.

"What?" she demanded, "What the fuck is it now?"

"You're... I'm... I mean, you... me... naked!" he squeaked, eyes firmly scrunched shut.

"Dean Winchester, I've told you before, I am NEVER naked. Right now, I am merely undressed."

"I'm undressed!" he howled in outrage. "Get me unundressed right now!"

"Jesus, is this the same man who once chased me up a tree promising escapades of carnal delight?" she asked incredulously.

"I was cursed! And I don't usually look at me... parading around like that!" he said angrily, "This is so wrong and creepy and weird and creepy and wrong! And creepy!"

"You are really being irrational about this, you know?" she told him tersely.

"BOBBYYYYYYYY!" Yelled Dean, "BOBBYYYYY, SHE'S IN MY ROOOOOM!"

"Okay, okay, I'm going," Ronnie picked up her towel, "But if I have to wear your stuff, I'll be back to launder with extreme prejudice." She adjusted her towel. "Damn it, I'll have to whack it with the hairbrush again, then I'm going to tie the bloody thing to my leg with string..."

"_BOBBYYYYYY!"_

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"What the hell did you do to him?" demanded Andrew later. "Did you hit him with the hairbrush? Dean, did she hit you with the hairbrush?"

"Not the me that I'm currently occupying..." muttered Dean, wincing.

"Sit still," instructed Ronnie around a mouthful of hair tie, "Or I will."

"She's an exhibitionist," griped Dean, "And she came barging in, when I wasn't even dressed..."

"Dean, flannel PJs constitute decent coverage, and are the absolute opposite of 'not even dressed'," insisted Sam, peering at the laptop screen. "So, you gonna start the werewolf lessons?"

"I guess so," sighed Ronnie, tying off the braid, "I'm just not sure how to go about it."

"I can demonstrate the hand thing," Andrew offered eagerly. "That worked for me."

"What's the hand thing?" asked Dean.

"I guess we can try that," Ronnie nodded. "It's how I tried to explain... flipping the switch, as you put it, to himself," she jerked a thumb at Andrew. "Your body knows how to be two different shapes – you have to find the way to tell it to, well, expand, into the wolf. I started off by staring at my hands, and imagining them changing."

"I've seen you do that," recalled Sam, "When you, uh, let me in on the Big Hairy Secret."

Andrew was nodding enthusiastically. "Go on then," Ronnie told him, "Show him how it's done."

Carefully extending the hand of his less damaged arm in front of him, Andrew appeared to frown with concentration. As they watched, his fingers elongated, widened, and finally extruded savage claws from the ends.

"Aaaaaaaand imagining that you are contracting back to human," prompted Ronnie, as Andrew's hands returned to normal. He beamed. "Well done," she told him. "Go on, Dean," she nodded at him, "Try it. Just your hands."

Dean held up his hands, and concentrated, imagining the small digits elongating, the deadly claws bursting forth...

"It's not working," he said, staring at his hands as though they were a personal affront.

"Give yourself some time," Ronnie encouraged him, "Think about expanding, stretching out, into the wolf. It's like, it's like... yawning all over. Show him again, Andrew, give him your paw to look at."

Andrew obliged. Dean stared, concentrated.

"Something's happening!" he yelped, as his fingers... stretched.

"That's good! That's good!" Ronnie smiled, "Imagine your paws, your claws, let your hands expand into the wolf..."

As he watched, his small female hands gradually gave way to a pair of large, hairy and very dangerous looking appendages.

"That's amazing!" he gasped, "I can feel them... growing..." It felt... _good_. It felt... _strong_. It felt... "I could disembowel anything with these..."

"Okay, now think back to your hands," she instructed.

"No, no, I wanna do this!" he breathed, turning his paws over. "I can do this!"

"Dean, not yet, you gotta practise with the switch," Ronnie said sharply, "So, picture your human hands now..."

It felt... _powerful._

It felt... like yawning all over.

And the thing about yawning is that it's contagious...

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Bobby had seem some pretty weird things in his house, so when he came into the living room and found two werewolves sitting on the sofa, he just sighed. The larger male monster looked sheepish. The smaller female looked totally unrepentant, grinning happily, tongue lolling.

"Oops," noted Sam.

"I really liked that shirt," muttered Ronnie.

"Let me guess," sighed Bobby, "Switch flicking practice got a little bit carried away..."

"And, not to be left out, Mr 'I Can Do This' got caught up in the excitement," Ronnie added sourly. The male werewolf's ears drooped visibly, and Joni whuffed sympathetically.

"And now they're stuck," Sam relayed.

The female werewolf stood up, gazing down at itself, flexing arms and paws experimentally, and panting excitedly.

_Wow. This is... awesome!_

"He's actually enjoying that, isn't he?" sighed Sam. The female monster moved carefully to where he was sitting.

_Who's short now then, huh? Huh?_ it whuffed.

"They'll snap back sooner or later," Ronnie rolled her eyes. "Little Mr Shyness there better have a robe or a towel ready."

"I'll see if I can find something on the TV for you," Sam began. "You want beer, bro? Andrew can show you how to shotgun them."

_Are you kidding?_ Dean yipped, _I wanna go out and see what this baby can do_!

"Dean, it's a werewolf body, not a frigging racing car!" Ronnie sounded exasperated.

Jimi bounced around Dean in excitement, tail wagging, reacting to his Alpha's happy mood. _Alpha! Play!_ He squeaked his blue pig. _We are strong! We are happy! Play, Alpha!_

_I hear that, Jimi,_ the female wolf carefully took hold of the squeaky toy and the tug-of-war was on. _I can understand Jimi! This is totally awesome!_

"What the hell?" demanded Sam, mystified.

"He wants to take that new toy around the block a couple of times," growled Ronnie, "And he's enjoying communicating with another mind that's only four years old..."

_I bet I could throw a car across the yard!_ Dean barked.

"You can flip a small one, if you practise some weightlifting drills to get your leverage angles right, but no actual throwing," she told him. "If you're good, I might show you how to do that later, when you get control of the switch."

_Buzzkill,_ he gruffed, dropping to his knees to rassle with Jimi.

"So how long are Lady and the Tramp goin' to be stuck like this?" asked Bobby.

"Could be a couple of hours," shrugged Ronnie, scowling at Andrew. "And you've popped your dressings, you idiot."

_Sorry,_ the monster rumbled. _Beer helps_, he added hopefully, with the sort of expression that all Rumsfeld's litter used when trying to solicit bacon.

"Was that Canine for 'Sorry, dear'?" grinned Bobby.

"And a plea for beer," Ronnie couldn't help grinning too, "I think sometimes it does help, maybe gets him to relax, and not think about it."

"If they're going to be stuck like this, maybe Dean could have a try at practising his, er, potent allure and feminine wiles on an alpha male," suggested Sam.

"It's probably worth a try," nodded Bobby. "How alluring and wily are you feeling, Dean?"

_He is quite alluring,_ whuffed Andrew, sniffing at Dean.

Dean turned to snarl at him. _Knock it off, you perv!_ he snapped.

"Have we just been witness to some sort of sexual harassment?" asked Sam.

"What he means, Dean, is that you're convincing as a female werewolf," Ronnie explained. "You're putting out a lot of the right signals. Canine can be a fairly... physical language."

_Well, of course I'm convincing, _Dean growled, _I am the Living Sex God, after all – and I know how to get in touch with my cosmic feminine energy._

"So, how does it actually work, you know, boy wolf meets girl wolf?" asked Sam, sounding interested.

"Right, well," Ronnie started, "First of all, she has to be giving the impression that she's confident and potentially receptive to a mating. Which presumably is what the Living Sex God does all the time anyway..."

"Tell me about it," sighed Sam.

"So, let's just say you're out for a run, under the moonlight," Ronnie suggested, "It's a nice night, the breeze is cool, and on the wind, you catch the scent of a male..."

Dean sniffed. _Er, he doesn't smell all that... imposing,_ he whuffed.

_Pair-bonded,_ snuffled Andrew quietly, and Ronnie smiled at him.

"It's attenuated because he's not on the prowl," she explained. "Do you think you can pretend to be, so Dean can get an idea of what this guy is likely to do if they meet on four legs?"

_I'll try_, Andrew replied, _I'll pretend I'm pursuing you..._

_Aaaaaargh! _snapped Dean. _Creepy!_

"It's just for practice, Dean," Ronnie facepalmed, "So, you catch the scent of a male, and into the clearing comes this magnificent specimen." She waved a hand at Andrew. "Go on, male specimen. Be magnificent."

Carefully, Andrew stood on his good leg, and drew himself to his full height, letting out a roar. _I am here! I am alpha! Ow,_ he added, the whining yelp spoiling the effect somewhat.

"You couldn't just say 'hello' like regular folks," muttered Bobby, wincing at the noise.

"Now, no assertive female will just accept that," Ronnie went on, "She'll challenge him, play hard to get, because if he backs down too easily, he won't breed confident, assertive pups..."

_Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about breeding?_ yelped Dean.

"If you really were a female werewolf, that's what your instincts would be telling you," she snapped, "So, challenge him, provoke him, tell him he's not good enough for you."

_Okay. _Dean thought for a moment, then his own muzzle drew into a slavering snarl. _I've seen bigger ones on bunny rabbits!_

"Dr Ruth does werewolves," muttered Sam uncertainly. "I have now officially seen everything."

Andrew's face drew into a threatening grimace as he limped to Dean's side. _I am alpha, _he rumbled dangerously.

_Ooh, I went all tingly when you did that_, panted Dean.

"Oh, God, can we try to take this seriously?" said Ronnie despairingly.

"Is this a good time for me to remind him about Porn and Reality being two very separate things?" suggested Sam.

_No, seriously, I went all tingly when he did that_, Dean repeated.

"I really don't want to know. Keep your mind on the job. Now, turn your back on him, and wander away casually. Saunter. Strut."

_No problem. The Living Sex God knows how to strut._ Dean demonstrated. Ronnie swallowed.

"Is he doing that right?" asked Sam anxiously.

"Um," said Ronnie faintly, "It's hard to explain, but what he's doing... it's like watching myself in a porn film..."

_Yeah, see how you like it, you cow._ Dean turned his head, and whuffed over his shoulder. _Were you saying something, big boy?_

Andrew limped to Dean's side, sniffing at his shoulder. _Den with me,_ he rumbled.

_You do smell interesting, _Dean rumbled back, _Tell me about your Den..._

"Oh, God, he's far too convincing," Ronnie dropped her face into her hands and sat down heavily. Sam patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

_This is the bit where Sammy and Jimi leap out of the bushes and we gank him, yeah?_ asked Dean.

"Sam and Jimi will have to manoeuvre carefully, so he doesn't catch their scent," Ronnie instructed, "So you might have to keep his attention firmly fixed on you until they're in position."

"So, let's see you practise some distractin'," prompted Bobby. "Go on, Mata Hari. Or Mata Hairy, even..."

_Den with me, _Andrew rumbled again, sniffing at Dean's face, _Den with me, beautiful bitch..._

_Er, maybe we should go on a date first, you know, get to know each other, _suggested Dean, _Say, you like to eat Chinese? Food or people, since we're werewolves, ha ha..._

_Join my pack,_ Andrew moved closer, _Den with me._

_Do you have any interesting etchings you'd like to show me?_ Dean yelped. _Hey, dude, personal space!_

_We will Den, _Andrew whuffed gently, wrapping one long arm around Dean, _We will be strong, and happy..._

_Er, you do remember that it's not actually Ronnie in this body right now... _Dean tried to squirm away.

"Should we have got him to pick a safe word before this started?" wondered Sam.

_I will mate you,_ continued Andrew, nuzzling at Dean's ear,_ I will give you my knot..._

_What the FUCK?_ yelped Dean.

_You will whelp my pups,_ huffed Andrew, licking at Dean's muzzle, _They will be strong and happy..._

_FUNKYTOWN! _With a squeal and a twist, Dean eluded Andrew's embrace, and sprinted for the stairs. Jimi raced after him, barking happily.

"Wow," mused Sam, "Rule 34. It's true."

"You know damned well that werewolves don't have a bulbus glandis, and don't tie when they mate," Ronnie said sternly.

"I may not speak Canine, but I know a con man when I see one. You, sir, are an evil bastard," Bobby said to Andrew, as the male werewolf whined a little and sat down again. "And I take off my hat to ya."

"I, uh, suppose I should go and, er, see if he's all right," decided Sam. "Who knows, the shock might even make him shift back to human."

"Take him a beer," suggested Ronnie, "It can't hurt." She gloomily inspected the remains of the shirt that Dean had torn out of. "And just warn him, if he does this to my most comfortable PJs, I'll shove something up his arse that will make a dog's dick seem preferable."

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><p>Reviews are the Comfy Jim-Jams in the Big Warm Bed Of Life!<p> 


	12. Chapter 10

Mayhem, uproar and shenanigans - we have adopted a new dog (an ex racing Greyhound), and wackiness is ensuing. They're finally settling down enough to let me get on with some writing in the evening. Mind you, the husband now has two of them to blame the gassiness on. Even when they're not in the house...

I cannot possibly write stories for all the times Dean has pissed off a witch, and inspired a curse. There aren't enough electrons in the interwebs for that.

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><p><strong>Chapter Ten<strong>

"Dean," Ronnie said sternly as she dealt with one of Andrew's dressings, "Go and do it."

"No," Dean shot back defiantly. "I'm doing my hair."

"It wasn't a request," she continued, "So go upstairs, and do it!"

"Bite me," snarked Dean, tying off his braid.

"You cannot walk around like that!" Ronnie insisted.

"Why not?" demanded Dean, turning to check his braid in the mirror on the mantel.

"Because... because... look, you just can't, all right?" she told him. "It's... it's..."

"More comfortable," he said smugly, considering his reflection. "Have you ever considered doing something else with your hair? A large wave, maybe, loose curls, that sort of style takes attention away from an angular jaw..."

"Don't change the subject!" she snapped, "Now get yourself upstairs right now!"

"Make me," he smirked.

"You'll be the first to complain if I do," she warned him.

"I'd like to see you try," Dean sniped, putting down the hairbrush and doing the hand thing, "If I use my werewolf elbow grease on you."

"Yeah, right," Ronnie rolled her eyes, "Like the Living Sex God will deploy the Claws Of Doom against his own body... Bobby," she turned and appealed to the older Hunter as he came into the living room, "Bobby, Dean's being unreasonable and uncouth..."

"So, just another day in Paradise, then," grunted Bobby.

"She's the one who's being unreasonable, Bobby," Dean retaliated, "She's making unnecessary demands."

"My request is completely reasonable," replied Ronnie.

"I thought you'd be right on board with such a gesture," Dean suggested, "The feminist self-assertion of throwing off a yoke of misogynistic oppression..."

"This has nothing to do with feminism, Bobby, and everything to do with common decency!" yapped Ronnie.

"I am decent," Dean insisted, "Tell her, Bobby, I got two shirts on..."

"I don't suppose either of you idjits would care to fill me in on this dispute I'm supposed to be refereein'?" he asked in a long-suffering tone.

"Dean refuses to wear a bra any more," Sam informed him, not looking up from the laptop, "And he wants to burn it."

"Salt and burn it," growled Dean. "I hate having my ribs strapped when there's a good reason for it."

"Don't you dare!" snapped Ronnie, "Those things cost money!"

"Think how much you could save," he pointed out. "Anyway, I am not putting that THING on again. It's really annoying. I'm going..." he paused. "Uh, is there a word for it? Like, 'going commando' but, um, further up?"

"Going Air Force?" suggested Sam. "Going astronaut?"

"Freeboobing," contributed Andrew, earning himself a snarl from Ronnie.

"It's not right," Ronnie insisted.

"Nobody can tell," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "And you haven't got that much, so it's not like I'm going to give myself a black eye chasing down a fugly or anything."

"That's not the point!" Ronnie almost wailed.

"Huh, this from the woman who walks into biker parties and drug dens stark naked," Dean scoffed.

"That's different," she snapped.

"How is it different?" Dean wanted to know.

"Because... because you're... you're naked under your clothes!" she finished.

Andrew blinked. "Um, aren't we all? Ow!" he yelped as Ronnie glared whilst examining his leg.

Bobby sighed. "Look, as fascinatin' as this debate is, I think we have other concerns to divert us. Progress on the curse-breaking front is depressingly slow - Hindi is not a language I'm fluent in, and petitioning the Divine Wisdoms to dispel it when, from a certain point of view, Dean deserved it is tricky..."

"What do you mean, a certain point of view?" demanded Dean. "I totally did not deserve this curse!"

"Uh, I hate to be the one to break it to you, bro," Sam said tentatively, "But you did get kind of, well, arrogant when you were dissing that witch..."

"I'm not arrogant!" Dean insisted, "The Living Sex God is not arrogant!"

"Declaring yourself a deity could possibly be construed as arrogance," Sam told him, "And you did refer to Kali as a stuck-up cow, then you objectified her."

"It's not arrogance if it's true," snarked Dean.

"Plus, while we can call your attendance at that workshop under false pretences a ruse de guerre, she could call it hypocrisy," Sam went on.

"A roos de... what?" Dean echoed.

"He means a bald-faced lie to get what you want," Andrew informed him, wincing again.

"Maybe you should've burned your bra during that workshop," muttered Ronnie sullenly, "To prop up your feminist cred."

"The point is," Bobby broke in, "I can't promise I'll get you two swapped back anytime soon. You got any more intel on feral Fido?" he asked Sam.

"I think so," Sam peered at his laptop again. "I think he's been doing this for a while. There's been clusters of attacks that fit this pattern, months apart, over the last couple of years. The victims are all male, sightings refer to a large savage animal, and there's always at least one witness swears it was a wolf. The wounds are consistent with an Old North werewolf's claws and size, but the attacks happen outside of the full moon. He's been moving across the northern states, enjoying a killing spree, then dropping out of sight for a couple of months. And," he opened another window, "I suspect that in a couple of cases, he's attacked – and killed – other werewolves. Where there have been likely attacks coinciding with the full moon, after he's arrived, they stop."

"He attacks outside of the full moon," mused Dean. "He's a bully. He attacks male humans, but when he attacks other wolves, he does it so they can't fight back on equal terms."

Ronnie looked thoughtful. "You said the wounds were consistent with an Old North wolf's claws. What about bite wounds?"

"That's the strange thing," Sam commented, "I've managed a peek at a couple of autopsy reports. There aren't actually any bite wounds. I think that, and the out-of-normal-business-hours thing, might have worked to throw Hunters off his trail before now. What?" He asked, as Ronnie and Andrew exchanged a look.

"He knows what he's doing," she said grimly, "He can't just control the shapeshift, he can control himself, his thoughts and actions, while he's in wolf form. He's deliberately avoiding biting his victims."

"Why would he do that?" asked Dean. "To avoid the possibility of making someone else turn, giving himself competition?"

Ronnie shook her head. "No, he'd just kill them out of hours," she answered, "It's nastier than that. An Old North wolf's bite is its most effective killing weapon. Quickest and most efficient. This guy is deliberately not deploying that."

"He plays with his food," Andrew said in disgust. "It's what he was doing with me – he could've killed me well before help arrived, but he was having too much fun tearing me up. He didn't just want to eliminate a rival – he was enjoying the kill." His eyes narrowed. "He's killing for the fun of it."

"And you're going to have to make him believe that you find it a turn-on," Ronnie couldn't hide the distaste in her voice. "You have to be a she-wolf who's in touch with The Murderous Monster Within."

"Balls," humphed Bobby. "You're up against a really nasty piece of work here, guys. Are you sure you don't want to wait until you're back in your own body?"

"We gotta stop him before more people die," stated Dean firmly, "And my she-wolf disguise, coupled with my natural awesomeness and highly developed Hunting skills, will be an unbeatable combination. I'll distract him, Jimi will attack him, Sam will whack him, happy ending, roll credits, fade to black." Jimi whuffed, and squeaked loyally on Oinker Stoinker.

"You think he can pull it off?" asked Bobby, raising an eyebrow to Ronnie.

"If he can keep up the hard-to-get act for long enough," Ronnie replied. "I think that if he has to, he can flip the switch, with enough warning, but if he tries to go toe-to-toe with this guy, he'll lose. The only way to beat a male this size is to fight sneaky, and vicious."

"The way female dogs fight," Sam nodded, "They act all submissive and harmless, get under a male's guard, and come up from underneath."

"Exactly. And a male brain will have trouble doing that. Testosterone poisoning." She looked Dean the same tone of voice that a kindergarten teacher might use to say 'Oh, look, that one's eaten the Play Doh. Again.' "Of course, once he does shift, he has trouble getting back to human again." She stared hard at Dean. "You're going to have to think of yourself as a grenade."

"Because when I go off I'm a really impressive bang?" Dean fluttered his eyelashes.

"No, because once you pull the pin, you cannot be readily disarmed," Ronnie rolled her eyes. "Do you ever stop thinking about sex?"

"Yeah," answered Dean defensively, "When I'm asleep."

"Uh, actually," Sam cut in reluctantly, "That's not strictly true, if the noises you make in your sleep sometimes are anything to go by..."

"Sometimes I get restless," Dean explained.

"...And the less said about the mattress humping the better..."

"Well, it can be difficult to get comfortable on a cheap mattress," Dean said dismissively.

"...And the pillow talk you come up with when you're actually talking to your pillow..."

"Well, what are you doing listening, you perv?" bristled Dean.

"It's kinda hard to ignore," Sam pointed out a little grumpily, "When you're telling your pillow how much you're enjoying playing with its..."

"I think I'd like another painkiller," interrupted Andrew plaintively, "Or a blow to the head with a blunt instrument, anything that will knock me out so I don't have to hear the details."

"What about a blow to the head with a blunt instrument, only I aim it at Dean's head?" suggested Ronnie brightly.

"Hey, Sam's the one dishing up too much information," Dean complained, "So go get a step-ladder, and slap Gigantor. Maybe you could braid his hair, and pull it tight enough to stop blood flow to the brain..."

"Don't shoot the messenger, Dean's the one who molests the bedding in his sleep," Sam retorted.

"Well, if I'm going to be convincing as a footloose she-wolf on the prowl to find a partner in mayhem, murder and mutual merriment, we'll need separate rooms," Dean stated, "And anyway, you sharing a room with your 'big sister' would just be awkward. So you won't be in danger of fainting every time the awesomeness of the Living Sex God overflows into his sleep. It's probably because I'm just so full of awesomeness, I can't contain it all – I have to let some of it vent during the night, or I might explode."

"You're certainly full of something," griped Ronnie, "But I wouldn't have called it 'awesomeness'."

"Jealousy is a curse," Dean grinned smugly, "But I'll forgive you, because that's all just part of my awesomeness... what the hell are you doing?"

"My leg's cramping up," Andrew winced, "And it's really hard to stretch without tearing something."

"I don't care," Dean snapped, "No massaging him when you're in my body! Not cool!"

"So, don't look," huffed Ronnie. "And stop glaring at me like that. Or I'll take my shirt off, and keep doing it." She paused. "And film us. And put it on YouTube. There may eventually be chocolate sauce involved. I'll send you the link..."

"Flirt," commented Andrew as Dean squawked in outrage.

"And you're okay with this?" Dean asked him in bewilderment, "Getting massaged by another guy?"

"I told you, it's my pair-bond in there, the packaging isn't very important," shrugged Andrew. Then his face became thoughtful. "Anyway, if I gotta be massaged by a guy, you're an attractive man, Dean..."

"Gaaaaaah! Pervy creepy wolfy man!" yelped Dean.

"So, what's the plan?" asked Bobby, attempting valiantly to glare all parties back into relevance.

"We head off, and Dean goes showing himself around town," Sam answered promptly, "While I see if I can identify any non-residents who might fit the profile – presumably he has to do something to support himself, so seeking out casual work opportunities might give us a lead. Unless he's resorting to robbery, or extortion. There haven't been any reports of mysterious thefts or robberies, though."

"It's a lot less trouble than looking for work," grinned Ronnie, "Plus, if you stick to rolling the local lowlife, they're unlikely to go to the police, and you may get an opportunity to hit somebody who really deserves it. That always brightens up my day. And I love to see the expressions on their gaping, steroid-bloated faces, when I pick one up and throw him across the room – it's s a combination of disbelief and terror and wondering if they're about to wet themselves. It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. Give it a try if you get a chance."

"Could we please not say anything that might encourage Dean to take his clothes off?" pleaded Sam a little plaintively.

"I am in fact trying to get him to put his foundation garment back on," Ronnie pointed out.

"I'm not putting that torture device back on," Dean stated firmly. "So, we'll head out tomorrow, scope the place out, hang around in bars, and wait for my naturally potent alluring sexual ambiance to bring him to us. I might have to hang around in a lot of bars, for a lot of hours, eat a lot of bar snacks, and drink a lot of alcohol, but that's a sacrifice I'm willing to make."

"Behold the heroic Hunter," Sam rolled his eyes, "With no care for his own safety, his own protection, his own liver..."

"That's my liver you'll be drowning," growled Ronnie, "So you'd better not damage it too badly. I want that body back in more or less one piece when you've finished with it, thank you very much."

"Yeah, yeah, I'll be careful," Dean waved a hand dismissively at her. "I'll look out for my own protection. In fact, when I meet this alpha male character, I'll be totally assertive, and make sure he uses protection too – if it's not on, Fido, it's not on, no glove no love..."

The hairbrush hit him in the back of the head.

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><p>There are lots of words in this chapter, but I just know that some of the Denizens read it, and the words that stuck in their brains were:<p>

Dean or Sam + going commando + naked + sex + fun + balls + humping + shirt off + pervy + massage + chocolate sauce + encourage Dean to take his clothes off + head.

If you could just work 'review' in there somewhere, I'd be ever so happy.


	13. Chapter 11

Dean **OR** Sam, Dean **OR** Sam, at the end of the last chapter, that was meant to be Dean **OR** Sam, NOT Dean **SLASH** Sam, followed by going commando + naked + sex + fun + balls etc. etc. etc., Denizens choose Dean **OR** Sam, then think the words that appeared afterwards... *kicks self for making stupid typo in very misleading fanfic context* I've fixed it now. Apologies to any slash fans (what you think about in the privacy of your own head is your own business), but that wasn't what I was getting at. The whole wincest thing just squicks me out. Srsly. Apologies to any Denizens who ended up as squicked out as me. I'm a total prude. The bits where Andrew is teasing Dean? I'm typing those with my eyes closed. Proofreading is a problem. I assure you, there will be no overt... ahem, yes, well, in this story. I am, after all, the woman who founded P.R.E.W.D.

Anyway, onwards with the silliness. (Chocolate sauce is okay, though.)

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><p><strong>Chapter Eleven<strong>

"Dean, can you pull over and let me drive?" asked Sam, squirming in his seat again.

"No," answered Dean shortly.

"This is kind of uncomfortable," Sam persisted.

"It can't possibly be threatening your masculinity, can it, Sammy?" grinned Dean, "Having your 'big sister' driving while you're in shotgun?"

"It's not my masculinity that's suffering, it's my legs!" snapped Sam, trying again to get more comfortable. "My knees are practically under my chin!"

"Well, I had to scoot the seat forward," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "It's not my fault. Call Ronnie, and tell her off for having such short legs. Come to think of it, it's probably your fault too, anyway, for having such freakishly long legs."

"I won't be able to walk by the time we get there," pleaded Sam, "Come on, let me drive. Please?"

"Nuh uh," Dean repeated firmly. "I didn't burn my bra just to let my brother push me out of the driver's seat. You should've found me a traditionally observant Muslim werewolf to swap bodies with, if that's what you wanted."

Sam's eyes boggled. "What? Dean, that's... that's... ridiculous! Even for you!"

"If it's that bad, you can swap with Jimi," Dean jerked a thumb in the direction of the dog, who was sprawled on the seat contentedly dozing. "He loves to ride up front. And there'll be lots of leg room, with the front seat forward." He looked thoughtful. "You can't call me 'bro', or 'Dean', while I'm wearing this meat-suit," he went on, "If you do inadvertently, we'll tell everybody that it's just a childhood joke, a shortening of 'Deanna'. Meanwhile, I will be Dee."

"Dee. Got it," Sam said a bit grumpily.

"You should do," Dean grinned at him, "It was your first word."

They pulled into the outskirts of Ellendale in the early afternoon, and stopped for lunch.

"Er, Dee," Sam said carefully, watching their waitress walk away more briskly than she had approached, "You might want to... turn that down a bit."

"What?" asked Dean.

"You know, the, er, flirting with the waitress thing," Sam explained, blushing slightly. "When you're, uh, you, I mean, when you're male you on the outside, you got the majority of women on your team, as it were, but right now, your target audience is considerably smaller, somewhere between five and ten percent of the population, depending on whose statistics you read..."

"Oh. _Oh._" Understanding dawned, and Dean's face fell. "Sorry, Sam. Force of habit. And she was hot. Did you see those legs? Dose legs. Dat ass."

"Yes, Dean, er, Dee, I saw her legs," Sam agreed. "And you saw her legs, and she saw you see her legs, and I think you freaked her out a bit, bro, er, sis. Did you see her? She practically scuttled back to the kitchen."

"But I can still look, right?" Dean sounded wistful. "Looking is okay. As long as I keep my mouth shut and my hands to myself, I'm not doing anything wrong..."

"Well, there's degrees of looking," Sam told him, "There's looking, and then there's_ looking._ You know, _looking_ looking. Ogling."

"I don't ogle," countered Dean.

"Dean, you totally ogle all the time!" Sam replied.

"Dee," corrected Dean.

"Whoever, you ogle, you leer, you perve, you undress with your eyes – sometimes I want to have a shower after just sitting in the same bar as you for half an hour..."

"It is a gift," Dean sighed happily, "The Living Sex God just has that talent."

"Yeah, well, just remember, right now, you're the Living Sex Godd_ess_," Sam emphasised, "And if you want to attract a male werewolf, you gotta put out the right signals. Eye-sexing women is not the right signals."

"Are we sure about that?" Dean pressed. "Because the idea of two chicks getting it on, that can be kind of hot..."

"Gaaah!" Sam burst out. "Stop it!"

Dean looked thoughtfully down at the female form he was inhabiting. "I mean, have you ever wondered what it's like?" he asked. "You know, what it's like, for a woman? They're made so differently."

"No!" Sam squeaked in horror. "And don't you wonder either! Or I'll swear I'll tattle on you! I'll tell Ronnie! I'll tell Bobby! I'll tell Andrew!"

"Don't tell him," muttered Dean, "Creepy pervy wolfy man. He'd probably want to watch..."

"Just stop it!" Sam repeated. "Andrew has just been winding you up. Think about how he's been freaking you out. That's what you just did to the waitress. Ten bucks says you've scared her off, and a different one brings our order out. If you freak out the staff to the point where they spit in our lunch, I will not be happy!"

Sam was right, a different waitress did bring out their food. Dean behaved himself, keeping his smile generic as Sam glared daggers at him.

"Not so much with the teeth," he ordered, "You want to look like you're being politely friendly, not like you want to eat her."

"I am being politely friendly," Dean insisted, digging into his burger with his usual gusto, "Ronnie has a really great smile, she just doesn't use it much. I can do politely friendly. I am Mr – or Miss, right now, I guess – Politely Friendly."

"For a given value of 'polite', approaching zero," humphed Sam, pushing a handful of paper napkins pointedly in his brother's direction.

"I enjoy my food, Sammy," Dean grinned and burped contentedly. "A plant-eater like you can't understand the simple joy that the activity can bring to a carnivore."

"Just because you can turn into a wolf doesn't mean you have to eat like a starving one," Sam reproached him.

"Hey, why so uptight, bro?" asked Dean solicitously. "Your bra too tight? 'Cause I understand how cranky that can make someone. Maybe you're the one who needs to throw off his girdle, let it all hang out. You need to get freeboobin', Sam."

"Kill me now," moaned Sam, dropping his head into his hands.

Dean insisted on ordering another hamburger – "I gotta keep up my red meat intake. It's a wolf thing. Don't angst it, vegiesaurus" – and a large slice of lemon meringue pie. He almost whistling as they left.

"Dat rack, Sam, dat rack," he sighed with a smile, waving goodbye to the second waitress who'd taken over from the one he'd startled, "I reserve the right to look when a rack like dat walks past. Imagine dat rack, going Air Force..."

"Can I at least drive until we find somewhere to stay?" Sam practically whined. "I don't think my knees are going to speak to me for a week after this."

"You could always ride in the trunk," offered Dean, "Baby won't mind, so long as you don't squirm around too much."

"You are disgustingly cheerful, considering you're stuck in somebody else's body," observed Sam.

"What's not to be cheerful about?" replied Dean. "I got my car, I got my sidekick Frumpy Francis, I got my faithful dog," Jimi whuffed happily from the back seat, "I got a job lined up – it's going to involve lots of hanging around and drinking, then I'm going to gank a werewolf, save the day, and get to be a hero." He smirked, and waved a paper napkin under Sam's nose. "Oh, and I got this. From Sharon."

Sam peered at the napkin, and his eyes widened. It was a phone number.

"The Living Sex God," Dean's eyebrows waggled, "My awesomeness knows no bounds. It's like Andrew says – the packaging isn't important, it's who's inside that matters."

Sam sat silently dumbstruck until Dean pulled the car into a motel lot, and booked them adjoining rooms. His big brother would be enough to make Dr Ruth join a convent, Dr Phil swallow his own moustache or Dr Freud bite through his cigar; he wasn't sure whether to be impressed, be scandalised, or just chalk it up to the fact that God, if He was still hanging around anywhere, got His personal jollies from trying to make Sam Winchester uncomfortable...

His brother. His brother was in a female werewolf's body. And still chatting up waitresses. It was just, just... it was...

"If I ever find out that Gabriel had anything to do with this," Sam muttered under his breath as he heaved his duffel out of the car, "I swear, I will shove his trumpet so far up his ass he'll be able to fart Reveille."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

A couple of hours at a well-appointed local library and a stop at a decent coffee shop improved Sam's mood considerably. He headed back to their motel, in search of Dean.

"In here, bro," Dean called from the bathroom. "What did you find out?"

"Well, it looks like feral Fido is really a recent arrival," Sam began, following his brother's voice. "There's nothing in the local papers for the last several decades suggesting any sort of wolf-in-residence, even though this part of the country was settled by a high proportion of immigrants of Germanic and Scandinavian ancestry, which is where the Old North wo-_huh_?"

"Oh, good, you brought coffee," smiled Dean. His head was just visible above the mass of bubbles, as he bobbed gently in the bath. "So, has he been following any sort of pattern? If he's already moved on, gone to ground again, we might have to... what?"

"Dean," asked Sam, clutching at the coffees, "What are you doing?"

"It's Dee," Dean corrected him without anger.

"Right, right," Sam nodded vacantly, clutching at the coffees, "Er, Dee, what are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Dean replied, sounding bemused.

"You're taking a bubble bath," Sam noted.

"Ah, nothing gets past you, does it?" grinned Dean. "That's the benefits of a higher education, that is. I can proudly tell anybody that Sammy aced Recognition of Bubble Bath 101, theory and lab. He did his honours project in How To Tell Toothpaste And Preparation H Apart; never let anyone say that college education has no everyday, practical use..."

"Dee," Sam tried again, "Why are you taking a bubble bath?"

"Somebody had left it under the sink," Dean explained, "And I'm still feeling a bit, well, stiff from some of those yoga moves. It just seemed... I just decided I wanted to. So I did." He slouched back into the bubbles. "And I think it's working. I feel better already."

"Are you, er, feeling all right?" Sam asked, concern creeping into his voice, "I mean, it's just that you're, you know, not normally the kind of person who would take a long hot wallow in..." he picked up the bottle, "Cottage Garden Soothing Soak."

"It's not to everybody's taste," conceded Dean, indicating Jimi. The dog sat at the door, whining anxiously, apparently not sure whether he should rush in to save his Alpha from the clutches of The Evil Soapy Water, or just stay the hell out of the way in case it grabbed him and pulled him in too. "But I'm just peachy, Sam." He lifted an arm out of the water and examined it. "They didn't leave a loofah under there as well, did they?"

"Uh, no," confirmed Sam after a quick check. "So, I'll, er, see you when you get out. We can go eat, then you can hit a bar or two."

"It's a dirty job, but somebody has to do it," Dean nodded sagely, taking a cup from Sam and sipping carefully. "Mmmmm, the nectar of the gods," he declared, smacking his lips appreciatively.

"Er, that one's mine," Sam told him, peering at the black espresso left in his hand.

"Yeah? Well, this one tastes good, so I'll have this one," Dean shrugged sipping again, leaving a little patch of chocolatey froth on his top lip. "Hee hee, frothy inside and out!" he declared, licking his moustache away.

"Er, okay," Sam said, "Me and Jimi will wait for you. Enjoy your soak." He shut the door behind him. Jimi followed him.

"Shit just got weird," Sam told the dog, patting the big anxious-looking face. Getting cursed by a witch, body-swapped, chasing after a murderous monster, that sort of thing happened to the Winchesters all the time; but Dean taking a bubble bath? Then appropriating Sam's latte, and giving every indication of actually enjoying it? Asking for a frigging loofah? Those constituted weird. Maybe he should call Bobby when he got a chance.

"Sam?" a beturbanned head poked out of the bathroom.

"Er, yeah, bro?" Sam replied, turning back to Dean.

"Sis," Dean gently prompted.

"Um, yeah, sis?" Sam tried again.

"Did you get a little bottle of moisturiser in your room?" Dean wanted to know. "I just noticed how dry and cracked my elbows are."

"Er, not sure," replied Sam, "I'll have a look. Dee."

"Thanks, dude," Dean smiled, and disappeared again.

Yep, he was definitely going to call Bobby.

* * *

><p>Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Bobbing Gently In The Big Bubble Bath Of Life!*<p>

*(If you are Leahelisabeth, a review may be the Freaked Out Roughed Up A Bit But Not Too Much Shirtless Sam Winchester Stuffed Into The Cupboard Under The Vanity in the Bathroom Of Life.)


	14. Chapter 12

Aww, apparently some of the Denizens went a bit mooshy over my reference to Sam's first word being his brother's name... if anybody is fond of Wee!chesters, I have actually written one, 'The Way Of Things'. You might like it. Zombie Robot Sailors and Latin Speaking Crime Fighting Bimbos. And Himbos. Srsly.

Work and new dog are occupying far too much of Real Life currently, but I shall try to update asap. True dinks.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twelve<strong>

Sam main concern was that, once they hit the bars, Dean would fall back into character, and be unable to stop himself from flirting outrageously with any pretty thing that crossed his line of sight. Thankfully, the Living Sex God managed to keep himself under control; in fact, as Sam watched, his brother's behaviour was somewhat subdued; he hustled some pool, drank some beer, ate some wings, and made friendly conversation with a few other patrons, keeping The Smile under control and not flashing it at any women.

"So, any hint of feral Fido yet?" asked Sam, when his 'big sister' returned to their table.

"No," replied Dean, glancing around the bar again.

"Are you sure?" pressed Sam.

"I haven't picked up on anything that smells, uh, alpha-maleish," Dean tried to explain. "It's hard to describe. Ronnie said it would be like Andrew, but a lot stronger. He says it'll slap me in the face, be unmissable, especially since I'm not pair-bonded." He looked around, in a manner that Sam thought was somewhat unenthusiastic. "No Alpha Axe attraction here, we might as well call it a night."

"Seriously? You okay, there, bro? Er, sis?" Sam asked in surprise, correcting himself as a cocked eyebrow reminded him that Dean was answering to Dee for the time being.

"I'm fine, Sammy," came the completely predictable answer.

"Because seriously? You're not acting fine," Sam told him bluntly. "I know I told you to dial down the charm a bit, but you're supposed to be out here, oozing pheromones, showing yourself, giving the impression you're on the prowl, and looking for a good time. The impression that you're actually giving is that you're a kid who's come home to find his, or, uh, her, favourite toy broken and all the chocolate ice-cream gone. What happened to your feminine wiles, and potent sexual allure? And since when do you want to want to leave a bar early?"

"I just don't think there's any point trawling for Cujo tonight," Dean sounded a bit defensive.

"It's not, er, you know, I thought that the, er, mysterious feminine, uh, mystery had finished..."

"No, it's not Aunt Flo giving me trouble," Dean grinned briefly, "I'd just have sent you to buy more cookies and peanut butter. And steal some Vicodin. Seriously, I'm fine, Sammy." He stared into his beer in a way that was decidedly wistful, then finished it. "Come on, let's go."

Sam trailed his 'big sister' back to the car in amazement. Jimi jumped up from his snooze, tail wagging at the return of his Pack members.

"Come on, this could be important, what's wrong?" Sam asked, getting into shotgun.

"Nothing, I'm fine," grunted Dean.

"I don't think you are, Dean," Sam pressed on.

"It's Dee," Dean reminded him.

"Uh, yeah, well, Dee, I don't think you are," Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Seriously, you're... droopy. Not your usual brash and cocky self. If this is something to do with, you know, swapping bodies, or the curse, it could be something we need to worry about."

"It's not, Sam," Dean said brusquely him, "So don't worry. I'm just feeling a bit..." to Sam's surprise, Dean actually looked genuinely unhappy. "I feel... unattractive," he finished in a small voice.

"You... what?" Sam's jaw dropped.

"I feel unattractive, okay?" Dean snapped. "I feel unattractive, and frumpy, and homely, and, and, it's impossible to _act_ attractive when you don't _feel_ attractive! I feel about as alluring as Rosie O'Donnell in waders and pasties! How am I supposed to project being attractive to anyone else, when I don't even find myself attractive?" Picking up on his unhappiness, Jimi hung his head over the seat, and whuffed sympathetically.

"Er," Sam gaped at his brother; Dean usually had so much physical self-confidence in himself that he was irritating with it. He sometimes thought that if he sliced his brother thinly, each piece would have 'I'm Too Sexy For This Planet' written on each slice, like lettered rock. "Okay. Um, why exactly do you feel... unattractive?"

"Look at me, Sam!" Dean positively snapped again, as he gestured irritably at himself, "I'm a forty-year-old woman, dressed in a pair of faded jeans, boots that could kick in a Black Dog's skull, a plaid shirt, and a tee that reads 'I'm the infidel your imam warned you about'! I'm wearing my hair in a style that Puritans would call boring! I've seen more attractive hands on boxers!" He examined his hands critically. "One of the staff tapped me on the shoulder as I was heading for the Ladies', and told me 'The Men's room is over there, pal'! The only guy I'm going to attract looking like this is a lumberjack recruiting agent!" He slumped behind the wheel. "Or maybe a talent scout, looking to cast for a new movie about She-Hulk. I'll need fake tits, though..."

"Well, Ronnie's most comfortable with practical," Sam ventured, frowning. "I don't think she, uh, worries much about, that sort of thing. And she can't help the way she looks, Dean. Dee. Not everybody is born as pretty as you."

"You're telling me," snorted Dean, "Ronnie is not a presence that screams 'Come and get it while it's hot, big boy!' She is a person whose, er, person screams 'I'm here to tear off your head, kick down your house, write off your car, drink all your beer, trample your petunias and frighten your cat – then, I'm gonna get nasty'." Dean slumped, looking defeated.

"Andrew calls it the 'Don't Fuck With Me' field," Sam nodded. "You're just going to have to work with what you've got. Sis."

"Yeah," Dean sighed. He turned sad eyes on Sam. "And that's not a lot."

Sam peered at his brother: suddenly finding himself physically not terribly appealing was apparently taking a dreadful psychological toll on the Living Sex God. "Well, since you're in a female body, you wanna go back to the room, and eat some chocolate? That's supposed to help." He paused. "For a little while, anyway, until the guilt about eating it hits, so you'd better be ready for that..."

"What would help would be having my own body back. Or at least, somebody to punch," muttered Dean. He let out a long breath. "I think I need to go for a walk. Here," he threw the Impala's keys at Sam, and got out of the car, "Take my Baby back. And I will check her for dents, bitch, so be careful."

"What?" Sam stared at his 'sister'. "You... want to go for a walk? At this hour?"

"Look, I got my cell, and I promise I won't speak to any strange men or get into anybody's car, okay? I'll be back soon." He flashed a rueful version of The Smile at Sam. "And I think we both know who'll come off second best if some local mugger decides he wants to try to steal my purse."

"Uh, okay," Sam agreed hesitantly.

"Attaboy, Sam," Dean grinned again. "Oh, get some wings for Jimi and feed them to him, will ya? They used some sort of industrial waste to clean the floor in my room – a bit of cinnamon-scented half-Hellhound farting is just what the place needs."

"Will do," Sam told him. Dean gave him a thumbs up, and left the lot. Jimi jumped over the seat into shotgun when he saw that Sam was alone.

"Well, I got good news, and bad news, Jimi," Sam told the dog. "The bad news is, Dean is acting weird, and I don't know if it's part of the curse, or just a side-effect of being in somebody else's body, and a werewolf body at that. The good news is, I got orders to feed you your favourite snack. You want wings, Jimi?"

The Living Snacks God woofed in hearty approval.

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The smells of the night came to his nose, cool and clean scents of foliage and earth mingling with the traces of people going about their business. In a strange way, it was soothing.

Sam thought he was going nuts. _He_ thought he was going nuts. It was irrational, it was unreasonable, it was... he caught sight of himself in a long store window. Inescapable. That was the word. Dean Winchester, Living Sex God, and devastatingly handsome and charismatic individual (if he did say so himself) was trapped in a body that could, if you were feeling charitable, be called 'striking', if only because it gave off the impression that it wanted to hit you.

Sam would no doubt berate him for being vain, and shallow, and talk about 'inner beauty' and 'personal qualities'. He assumed that Ronnie had some of those, since she was pair-bonded, though what exactly they might be, he really couldn't guess. The problem was, 'inner beauty' and 'personal qualities' were what you needed for pair-bonding. 'Outer beauty' and 'personal protection' were far more helpful if you were on the look-out for a like-minded frisky partner of the opposite sex, and they were an essential aspect of the Living Sex God.

A small group of women, dressed to the nines, made their way past – a group of friends, chattering and laughing, on a girls' night out. Dean felt a strange pang of... something he couldn't identify: for a moment, he wondered if Ronnie had ever had a moment of crushing realisation about just how... not attractive she was. He wondered how old she'd been. He wondered if she'd gone home and cried into her dog, because suddenly that seemed to be what he wanted to do...

Dean sighed. The whole female gig was turning out to be a lot more complicated than he'd anticipated.

Half-way down a dingy side-street, a run-down building with nonetheless robust security, including an overfed man with an overfed Rottweiler, attracted his attention. There were motorcycles parked outside, and thumping music coming from inside. An acrid, chemical tang floated in the air.

Dean smiled to himself. He might yet get an opportunity to make himself feel better...

As it turned out, the dog was a lot more intelligent than the guy on the other end of the leash. He took one look at what was really in front of him, baring its teeth at him, and took off, yelping, running as fast as his overstressed legs would carry him.

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When the occupants of the clubhouse exchanged notes later, nobody was sure exactly how _she_ had gotten in to start with; the eager prospective member had been on door bitch duty with Tyson, and everybody agreed that the damned mutt scared the shit out of just about anybody – it had once taken on a police horse, and won – and if that pussy wannabe didn't stop her, then the dog should've at least stopped part of her.

There was alcohol involved, of course, and she was stark naked, and walked in like she owned the place. The President thought she was a stripper. His 2IC thought she was a hooker. The Sergeant At Arms thought she was somebody's sheep, and moved to help himself accordingly.

All in all, they agreed later, it could've been worse.

Yes, she snared their entire takings from the last major shipment, but there was of course still plenty in the kitty to pay for the orthopaedic and reconstructive surgery that the major office holders of the club would need.

And when they finally found that idiot who was supposed to be door bitch, and pulled him out of the dumpster, minus his pants, he tearfully announced that his dog had run away, so that was a bonus. The damned thing wouldn't be missed.

The one full member who gibbered about seeing her _change_, ranting about _teeth_ and _claws_, and pointed to the deep slashing injuries across his chest, was upbraided for testing the merchandise just a little too extensively, and assigned to door bitch duty. And ordered not to get a dog.

Because frankly, none of them wanted to look at any snarling sets of canine fangs that might remind them of what they thought they'd seen, but didn't want to talk about in case they were accused of pilfering the product... in the end, they put it down to the home brew they'd been drinking, because Squeak was damned good at his hobby and it was widely acknowledged that his Thunderfuck Brew could sit even the biggest guy on his ass after just half a dozen glasses.

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"I'm telling you, Bobby, something's wrong," Sam sat in front of his laptop, looking worried, "He said that he feels unattractive. Can you believe that? Dean, feels unattractive! You really are going to have to knit winter woollens for Crowley," he added to Ronnie, who hovered beside the older Hunter.

She smiled wryly at him. "Well, he does have a point," she told him, "I'm no oil painting. Don't curl your lip like that, mister," she addressed Andrew, "He's not pair-bonded, he's entitled to be depressed about not being pretty. It happens to all of us that are not born gorgeous, at one time or another. It's probably a bit of a shock to the Living Sex God to find himself less than devastatingly attractive on the outside."

"I don't know," Sam mused, "I'm worried that it might be more than that."

"It could be," nodded Bobby. "I don't think your brother was..."

"Sister," Sam rolled his eyes, "I get corrected if I forget to call him 'sis' or 'Dee'."

"Well, I don't think that your sibling was ever intended to, uh, be in touch with his inner feminine energy for this long," Bobby went on. "I'm pretty sure the swap was mainly intended to get him ganked. But since that hasn't happened, he's goin' to experience more aspects of his, uh, feminine nature. Which may include, bein' insecure about his looks."

"Well, he went for a walk, and hasn't come in yet," Sam said, "I'm just about at the point where I call him and demand to know where he is. If I'd pulled this stunt, he'd be all, 'Where the hell were you, I was worried sick, don't you dare do that to me, Sam', totally in Big Brother mode."

"You're just goin' to have to find ways to boost his self-esteem," Bobby decided. "You gotta help him feel attractive, so he can start acting attractive."

The look that Sam gave Bobby was pure WTF. "How the fuck do I do that?" he asked eventually.

"I find that complimenting her welding is effective," commented Andrew, grinning lopsidedly, "Or telling her she's got the best jab-cross combo I've ever worn. Or just grabbing her ass and growling gets the message across... OW!"

"Pay no attention to Romeo here," Ronnie grated out, "He's affected by drugs."

"Come on, Sam," Bobby positively grinned, "You've lived with a woman, son, you know how it works. You gotta help him feel good about himself."

"Oh, God," groaned Sam, "I cannot do this... all right," he raised his hands in surrender as their eyes bored into him, "I'll, I'll, I'll tell him he looks nice, tell him he smells good, I'll buy him flowers..."

"Expensive chocolate," pronounced Andrew sunnily, "Buy expensive chocolate, and that body won't just forgive you for denting the truck, it'll jump on you and OWWW!"

"I always knew you were a SNAG type," Bobby grinned even wider. "Keep us informed. I'm still workin' on that curse, but I don't want to pop it when you're in the middle of doing something."

"Or he's in the middle of doing someone," added Andrew from off-screen.

"He does that, I will kill him with my bare hands," Ronnie stated flatly. "I may or may not wait until he's back in his own body."

"Er, could you actually do that?" Sam couldn't help but ask.

The smile she gave him was a Killer Smile that had absolutely nothing come-hither about it. "I believe that I may be about to warm up on another werewolf before I tackle him..."

"Just keep us in the loop," smiled Bobby, shaking his head, as a series of snarls and whines erupted off screen. "He's probably lucky he's not going to be here to watch him apologise when that stuff wears off..."

"I'm kinda glad that I won't be there," Sam confided, as Bobby waved goodbye, and the connection cut.

Sam sighed, and turned to Jimi. "So, what do you think?" he asked the dog. "Flowers is probably a bit much. And now I'm too scared to let him anywhere near chocolate."

He looked at his watch; they'd passed a 24-hour store on the way into town. He'd go and get female feel-good supplies, and if Dean wasn't back by the time he returned, he'd call, then go looking. Chocolate chip cookies were pretty much standard comfort food. And ice cream. Laced with Prozac, maybe.

Or possible strychnine.

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When a stray Rottweiler was brought into the animal shelter the next day, the initial assessment was that he had been a yard dog, chosen because he was big and scary-looking, overfed, and left to 'guard' a property, with no real human interaction. His fear-aggression probably would've seen him put down, if one of the volunteers didn't have a soft spot for Rotties, and notice his positive reaction to a friendly voice, a gentle pat, and a squeaky toy. She adopted him, and he settled remarkably quickly into a new family. A better diet and daily walks saw him lose the excess weight. He did well in obedience, and gained a minor title; all his instructors marvelled at just how well behaved he was around females of any species. Especially his own.

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><p>Reviews are the Unexpected Chocolate Chip Cookies in the Tea-Break of Life!<p> 


	15. Chapter 13

Dear patient Denizens, my grovelingest, humblest, snivelingest, suckingupest apologies for taking so long to update. Real Life has been thoroughly unhelpful. I work with an unfortunate number of fools, morons, and people who are clearly depriving villages somewhere of their idiots. It vexes me. This week, I have become terribly vexed. This has the unfortunate effect of making the plot bunnies shy, by the time I get home to listen to them I'm just knackered, and it's hard to hear what they say over the other voices, the ones that say things like "Calling someone a complete Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo-wit is not rude if it's actually true, then it's just a descriptive statement", and "THEY MUST ALL DIE! NONE SHALL BE SPARED!" and "It wouldn't be murder; think of it as... vermin control," and "It's only a felony if you get caught," and "Who says you'll get sacked if you hit someone who desperately deserves it? Don't you want to do the experiment, and find out for sure?" and other such helpful suggestions.

And then, Denizens, and then... FFN wouldn't let me log on! For two whole days! Curse you, naughty gremlins of the interwebs!

Like I said, terribly vexing.

But for now, we appear to have connectivity, and a modicum of calm (procured by throwing the dogs bull chews, and the husband a hip flask), so onwards with the madness. No, not the homicidal madness that threatens to cut a blood-soaked swathe through senior management at my place of employment in a grisly episode that a judge might later describe as being like nothing the designers of the Tupperware Happy Chopper had ever envisaged, the fanfic madness...

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><p><strong>Chapter Thirteen<strong>

"Dean!" Sam had just returned with female feel-good foodstuffs when his 'big sister' let 'herself' into his room. All desire to bitch about worrying left him when he saw the trickle of blood under 'her' nose. "Where have you been? What the hell happened to you?"

"It's Dee, Sammy," Dean grinned at him, as Jimi sniffed and whined anxiously at his Alpha, "And nothing happened to me. I happened to somebody else."

"Sit," instructed Sam, heading for the first aid kit, "Do I even want to know?"

"The Sergeant At Arms got fresh," Dean told him primly, wincing as Sam dabbed at his nose and inspected the damage. "Some guy behind him swung a pool cue at me. The nerve! What sort of an asshole hits a lady with a pool cue?"

"Possibly the kind who sees his Sergeant At Arms collapse screaming to the floor with his arm broken in three places," muttered Sam, getting a painfully clear insight into what 'Dee' had been up to as he continued his inspection.

"Both arms," sniggered Dean. "And you do not want to know what I did with that pool cue."

"I don't think it's broken," Sam pronounced, with a shot of Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual), "Although you might want to put some ice on it, minimise any swelling or bruising."

"Don't want to mess up my face, huh?" Dean smiled wistfully. "Bit late for that, Sam."

"Don't be like that," Sam handed him the wet washcloth, and went to fetch ice. "I got you some... ah, you found them," he observed when he returned.

"Hmmmm," hummed Dean happily around a mouthful of cookie, "I could smell these when I walked in." He looked thoughtful. "Do you think that's a wolf thing, or a chick thing?"

"I have no idea," Sam told him, "Possibly a bit of both. So, do you feel better, for having, er, taken some exercise?"

"A bit," Dean sighed, biting into another cookie. "You probably think I'm being silly," he added.

"I think that what you're feeling is real," replied Sam carefully.

"You'd have made a damned good professional weasel if you'd stayed at school and done Law," Dean observed.

"No, seriously," Sam went on, "I think all women have days when they just feel, you know, not attractive. It goes with the territory, er, sis."

"Yeah?" Dean ate another cookie.

"Yeah, totally," Sam nodded. "You probably aren't that familiar with it, because when they feel unattractive, they don't want to go out looking for, er, frisky times with the Living Sex God. Jess had days like that," he added. "She called them 'Fat Freak Days'."

"But... she was totally hot!" Dean replied in amazement. "How could a chick like Jess possibly feel unattractive?"

"Exactly!" Sam pointed out. "On Fat Freak Days, she only saw what she thought of as her bad points, and couldn't see her good ones. Guys, on the other hand, tend to look for the good points. You know, maybe a girl's hair's a bit mousy, but she's got a great... smile."

"Yeah?" Dean wondered again, then caught sight of himself in the mirror. "I wonder what my good ones are," he said, almost sadly, to himself."

Sam sighed. "Look, it's a matter of... priorities," he tried to explain. "Shut your eyes for a minute, and pretend I'm a girl..."

"Not that difficult to do, Sammy," Dean grinned at him.

"Ha ha ha, you're hilarious. I'm serious. Okay, now I'm going to pretend I'm a girl, having a Fat Freak Day," Sam related, "And I want you to listen to me talk about it, and pick out the important things I say, okay?"

"Okay, Samantha," Dean grinned again, and shut his eyes.

"Right." Sam let his voice rise several tones. "Oh, I don't know, no, really, I just don't feel attractive. You probably think I'm being silly. I feel like my boobs are too small, and I think that my ass is fat, and my clothes won't sit right, and my face is just totally blah, I don't want to go downtown tonight, I want to stay home, because I don't think any guy would even look twice, you know, when I get like this, I can't imagine any guy ever wanting to have sex with me. Okay, open your eyes." Dean did. "Now, what were the important bits of what I just said?"

"Attractive, boobs, ass, sit, face, go down, have sex with me," answered Dean promptly.

"See? The prosecution rests, Your Honour," Sam finished triumphantly. "Accentuate the positive, and all that."

"Okay," agreed Dean. He turned back to the mirror, and eyed his female self critically. "What exactly is my positive, here?"

"Well, what about your hair?" Sam suggested, "You said you didn't like how Ronnie usually wears it. Jess used to swear by doing something different with her hair as a way of combating Fat Freak Days. You could, I don't know, just tie it back, or put it up, or something. Large wave or loose curls, remember?"

Dean looked thoughtful. "Maybe, yeah." He looked down at himself. "Maybe I could get a shirt that's a bit more, you know... nice."

"You totally could," agreed Sam, "Accentuate the positive. Why don't you go buy one tomorrow? Shopping is supposed to be a cure for Fat Freak Days, too," he added.

"I might," Dean smiled a little, then yawned. "These are for me, right?" he asked, waggling the packet of cookies. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, baby bro."

"Okay. Sleep tight, sis," Sam watched as Dean let himself out, followed by Jimi, who was deploying the Big Brown Eyes in the hope of soliciting a cookie. He let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Part of him wanted to laugh out loud; part of him wanted to slap Dean upside the head.

But mostly, he wanted to scream to an uncaring universe that he wasn't getting paid enough to play Queer Eye For The Straight Guy Stuck In A Female Werewolf's Body Feeling Unlovely.

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"So, what's on the agenda for Professor Nerd?" asked Dean cheerfully over breakfast, speaking around a mouthful of egg. He'd spent some time tapping thoughtfully at the laptop that morning, and whatever he'd been looking at seemed to have cheered him up. Sam thought it might've been porn.

"There's a couple of local businesses I want to check out, places that take on casual staff," Sam answered – maybe it was the porn, maybe it was the amazing restorative effects of bacon. "Or maybe he's been rolling the local lowlife, like Ronnie does. If he's here for a while, he must be supporting himself somehow."

"Walking naked into a biker club house probably wouldn't work for him," Dean noted smugly.

"I doubt it," Sam agreed with a smile. "So what about you?"

"I got some research of my own to do," Dean said airily, gesturing at his tee du jour (it had the words 'I LOVE MEN – but I can't eat a whole one by myself' emblazoned on it). "Somewhere in this town is a shirt in my size that doesn't have a smartass comment written on it. And as a last resort, there's a cupcake store a few blocks from the motel – I can always test out your theory of carbohydrate loading as an anti-depressive therapy." He pushed himself back from the table, stood, burped heartily, and threw down some bills. "Here. Breakfast is on the Kawasaki Haters, or whatever they called themselves. I'll be back whenever. Don't feed Jimi too many wings," he called over his shoulder as he left the diner, "I just want a little bit of aromatherapy, I don't want the room to smell like a donut factory."

"Fine, fine," muttered Sam, thinking that he'd be glad to get Dean – Dee – out of his hair for a few hours. At least, he assumed it would be a few hours; in his experience, a woman could stretch the purchase of a single garment out to occupy an entire afternoon, with no guarantee of actually buying anything. He made a mental note to pick up some more cookies, just in case.

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Early in the week was usually slow at Hair, Flair and Bare, the beauty salon that Jenny had run for nearly thirty years. The matronly proprietor, a Lady Of A Certain Age with a little bit of extra upholstery (because life was too short to go without cheesecake, she was fond of saying) and her fair share of laugh lines (always expertly minimised with a skilful minimum of make-up, because a little bit of effort with one's appearance could go a long way) was busying herself with some accounting that she'd been avoiding. One of the girls who worked for her was studiously taking inventory of the various cosmetics when they heard the bell over the door sound.

"Oh, please, let that be a client," Angie begged to the universe, "Somebody who wants the works, even that slightly creepy old man who stares in the window when I'm sweeping up..."

"Old Man Bauer is harmless enough – he just can't resist the sight of a well-turned ankle, the daft old man – I did a pedicure on him once, and I warn you to be careful what you wish for." Jenny wagged a finger at Angie in mock disapproval as she went to see who had entered her store.

The woman with the scarred face was standing looking bewildered, almost as if she was ready to bolt from the small salon. She was wearing an expression that Jenny usually only saw on clients who had booked in for their first ever Brazilian wax, and were wondering whether he was really worth it. So Jenny put on her most reassuring smile, and radiated calm competence.

"Good morning, dear," she greeted her visitor, "I'm Jenny, welcome to my salon!"

"Hi there, Jenny, I'm Dee," the woman smiled briefly before lapsing back into nervousness.

"Well, Dee, how can I help you today?" Jenny pressed gently.

"Uh, I was wondering if maybe you could help me do... something, with this." Dee indicated a single long braid that hung over one shoulder.

"Oh, I can definitely do _something_ with it," Jenny told her, smiling, "But you might need to be a little more specific. Did you have anything in mind?"

"Well, it's just..." the newcomer gestured helplessly at herself, "I thought that I could... you know, try something different, something a bit less... something a bit more..." she sighed and stuttered into silence.

If Jenny had been asked to describe her job, she would've said that she was a combination of Fairy Godmother, Motivational Speaker, Fashion Consultant, Personal Cheerleader and occasionally Psychotherapist. She might not ever have studied at any academic institution, but she had extensive post-graduate experience in the school of Real Life – and right now, she knew she was looking at a woman who was in serious need of some self-esteem.

"Something a little less practical, and maybe a little softer, a little more... feminine?" prompted Jenny.

"Yeah, something like that," her newest client agreed. "I got mistaken for a guy last night," she added, her expression speaking a thousand words about just how bad she was feeling about herself.

"Well you, my dear, have come to the right place," Jenny assured her, showing the woman past the desk, chattering as she prepared the tools of her trade, "And I must say, your timing is absolutely perfect, you have saved me from a terribly traumatising encounter with the accounts... Oh, my," she commented as she removed the elastic from the braid, "What lovely hair you have." She cocked her head, eyeing the wavy mass released from the braid, "I tell you what, I have some magazines we can look at, there are a couple of things that you might like..."

"Would you like a coffee?" asked Angie, clearly more interested in a client than tallying capital holdings. She paused and cocked her head, studying the woman's face. "You have a very fair complexion," she commented, "But your eyes are dark – have you had your undertone and neutral colours done?"

"Um," Dee sounded doubtful, "I didn't know I had any."

"Oh, but every woman has them," Jenny told her, "In fact, we've just got some mineral foundation in that you might like to try, it's very good on cool colourings..."

"I've, er, never used make-up," admitted Dee. "Doesn't seem to be much point, really," she finished in a slightly wistful voice.

"Now, that's exactly the sort of talk we do not tolerate here," Jenny said briskly, "Very few ducklings grow into flawlessly perfect swans, but with a little effort, we mere mortals can grow into ducks with very attractive plumage indeed. Angie, why don't you fetch the Winter palette?..."

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Dee's nervousness dissipated as the consultation went on, and she flashed one of the most wonderful smiles Jenny had ever seen. She was a quick learner, too, absorbing information and detail like a sponge.

"Wow... it looks like a kid's paintbox! What's that stuff?"

"It's mineral shadow. You might want to be careful, it's very..."

"AH-CHOO! Oh, er, sorry."

"Never mind, it can be a bit wafty when the tub is that full."

"Who wears green lipstick?"

"That's what we call 'concealer', Dee..."

"Yeah? Hard to see it concealing anything. Except grasshoppers, maybe. What's this for?"

"That's lip liner, it's used to stop lipstick from bleeding."

"Lipstick bleeds? You can injure lipstick? You're kidding, right?"

"It means the lipstick can sort of leak off your lips..."

"Huh, lipstick bleeds and leaks. You learn something every day... hey, you get emos in here? They're the only ones who'd use black lip liner, yeah?"

"That's an eye-liner, Dee."

"To stop your eyes from bleeding? Or leaking? 'Cause I've seen girls with a faceful of make-up, and when their eyes start leaking, it all runs down their faces with the tears."

"That's mostly mascara that does that. It's what you put on your eyelashes. Here, I'll show you some lash products."

"Well, if somebody can come up with a product that will stop crying girls from looking like melting ice-cream cakes, they'll make a for-AAAAAAAARGH! KILL IT! KILL IT!"

"Dee, it's just false eyelashes! See?"

"Whoa, for a moment there, I thought you were offering me a really nasty looking spider... what's this stuff?"

"Here, why don't you have a try? Take the big brush, dab it in the pot, then shake of the excess. Now, start with your cheeks..."

Jenny watched contentedly as Angie coached Dee in the use of a Kabuki brush. She smiled to herself the way she always did when she could see a client start to feel a little bit happier about herself. Nothing short of major plastic surgery would ever camouflage that scar, so Angie wisely didn't even try. And as the morning slipped away, Dee really didn't seem to care about that either.

Time passed quickly; it really did fly when you were having fun. She only had a few appointments to deal with in the afternoon, so when Dee mentioned that she was planning to go shopping for a nicer shirt, Jenny took one look at the gleam in Angie's eyes, and sent her employee off to go clothes shopping with Dee. The girl had friends who worked in a few stores that might be appropriate. It was just as well that Dee seemed to be well supplied with cash; Angie shopped with the sort of infectious enthusiasm that would've made Mother Theresa renounce poverty and go at a Jimmy Choo or Manolo sale with both elbows ramming.

She waved them off as they headed out, and wondered vaguely who 'Sam' was. Dee had mentioned the name a couple of times, referring to 'him'. A colleague? A boyfriend? A date? She hoped he would be suitably impressed. Dee would never be beautiful, or anything that would be classified as classically attractive for a woman. The description that sprang unbidden into Jenny's mind was 'interestingly dangerous'. And she happened to think that interesting was at least as good as pretty any day, and it lasted longer. Besides, when Dee unleashed that smile, her whole face it up, and a woman happy to be herself radiated a sort of attractiveness that went beyond mere appearances.

Whoever he was, Sam was in for a hell of a surprise.

* * *

><p>*puts up hand sheepishly* Er, the 'green lipstick' thing? I did that. I'm afraid I know nothing about make-up, and had to glean what details I could for this chapter from the Great God interwebs, and various excursions I have made into make-up departments with friends who actually know about That Sort Of Thing. I find it all very intimidating. Especially the time that several of them sat on me and one of the ladies working at one of the stores did a thing called 'smoky eyes' on me. They said I looked great. I thought I looked like a peeved Rottweiler. My husband called me Alice Cooper. And there is no excuse at all for a company that called one of its foundation shades 'multiple orgasms'. Also, do NOT get me started on that mineral stuff; it went RIGHT UP MY NOSE, I tell you!<p>

Reviews are the Green Lipstick in the Make-up Testing Palette of Life!


	16. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

"So, how's it looking at your end?" asked Sam, peering at the laptop screen, and smiling as Joni's head bobbed into view, snuffling curiously at the computer at Bobby's place.

"Nothin' in the way of eureka moments, I'm afraid," Bobby told Sam regretfully, taking off his hat and scratching his head. "I think that the original surmise that there's a way for your brother..."

"Or sister," muttered Sam.

"Okay, I think there's a way for your sister-boy to break it," Bobby amended without missing a beat, "I'm just damned if I can figure out what it is. Apart from that, it's all quiet. Andrew's healin' up, and Ronnie gets domestic when she needs to distract herself – who knew?"

"Oh," replied Sam doubtfully, remembering all too well how Dean's cursed burst of home-making had started off harmlessly enough, but ended up driving their surrogate father to distraction. "She's, er, not interfering with your smalls? Not starching your shorts?"

"She's got just about every garment Dean owns soakin' in stain remover, and a certain amount of mending has been committed," Bobby related. "And I will never get used to the sight of your brother's body knittin', though, some things just weren't meant to be processed by the human brain. So, Martha Stewart moments at Casa Singer aside, any sign of Feral Fido yet?"

"Not a peep," Sam told him, relating the manner in which Dean's burst of feeling unlovely had derailed their first attempt to locate their rogue wolf. "I gave him cookies, and he went out to buy a new shirt today." Sam glanced at his watch. "In fact, I've just been wondering where he is – he's been gone for hours. I've got some peanut butter double-crunch cookies, though, just in case."

"Oh dear," grinned Bobby, "The dreaded Frump days. All a part of experiencing cosmic feminine energy, I guess."

"Just keep the chocolate coming," suggested Andrew, settling stiffly into the picture. "And if you get asked 'Does my ass look big to you?', remember, there is only one answer to that: 'I want my lawyer'."

"He could just be stuffing his face with cupcakes as we speak," Sam conceded, hoping that his 'sister' wasn't chatting up one of the girls behind the counter. "And it's not out of the ordinary for a woman to turn a shopping expedition for one item of clothing into an operation as complex as the D-Day landing at Normandy..."

"Aint nothing a male can really do to fix it when it happens, son," Bobby nodded knowingly. "Karen used to swear by getting her hair done, or buying a new lipstick," he added.

"He touches my hair, and I will make him regret it," snarked Dean's wrongly accented voice from off screen. Dean's face hovered into view, wearing the expression that Dean usually wore when he thought somebody was about to try to hurt Sam. "And if he goes anywhere near lipstick, I swear I will turn this body over to a woman who calls herself an aesthetician, and let her do painful, effeminate and long-lasting things to it..."

"No, no, he was just looking to wear it in a different style," Sam assured her quickly, "Something different to a braid. Like, putting it up, maybe." He paused as he heard a familiar engine rumble, and Jimi woofed happily. "Ah, that's him now," he went on, as Jimi made his way to the door in anticipation. "I'll tell him what you said, Bobby, and we'll keep you HOLY CRAP!"

"Hiya Sammy!" chirped Dean, as Jimi bounced happily around him, greeting his returning Alpha, "What are you doing? Are you skiting at Bobby?"

"It's Skyping, Dean," Sam corrected automatically, when he found his voice.

"It's Dee, Sam," Dean corrected him in turn, grinning.

"What's wrong?" demanded Ronnie, watching in concern as Sam's eyes bugged. "What's wrong? What's that bastard done to my meatsuit?"

"Nothing!" Sam assured her, smiling desperately, "Nothing! He hasn't done anything! It's just that he's... got so many bags!" he went on quickly. "Yeah, lots of bags! He's got lots and lots of bags! So many bags! His Inner Female is a real shopaholic! It just boggled my male brain for a moment..." He turned the laptop slightly, keeping Dean out of range of the camera. "I'..."

"Including cupcakes!" declared a smiling Dean, as he flounced over to the table, dropping his bags. "Phew! I think I need another soak, my feet are killing me. Hi Bobby!" he waved at the screen. "Oh, hi, Ronnie. I got you this awesome jacket..."

"Oh. Oh," went Andrew, staring.

"God's tits and Satan's toilet tissue," barked Bobby.

The snarling roar of outrage almost blew out the small speakers on the laptop.

"WHATTHEFUCKHAVEYOUDONE?" demanded Ronnie, bristling with outrage. "What have you done to my hair?"

"Whoa, chillax, dude...ette," soothed Dean. "I just got my, er, well, our hair done." He patted the new 'do happily. "A long, open-ended wave softens your jaw, and the layering creates a softer line. I just went a couple of shades lighter. It's very flattering. No need to thank me, it was Sam's idea," Dean graciously allowed.

Ronnie turned a teeth-baring snarl on Sam. "You told him to go and do that?" she breathed dangerously.

"I didn't! I totally didn't!" yelped Sam.

"You totally did, Sam," smiled Dean, "Don't be so modest! It was a great idea!"

"What the hell are you wearing?" Ronnie demanded. "Please tell me you haven't been walking around looking like that all day."

"No," Dean replied, "Only this afternoon." He smoothed down the wide neckline of the capped sleeved blue top, and looked pleased. "Of course, not a lot of women can carry off a top like this," he added, a hint of pride in his voice, "But this body has the shoulders and back for it. It rocks this top."

"It's... it's... bordering on indecent!" snapped Ronnie.

"No it's not!" Dean shot back. "If you got it, why not flaunt it?" He paused to look at himself in the mirror, clearly admiring what he saw. "Who knew that Sammy would be so knowledgeable about how to make a woman feel better about herself? I look totally hot in this! It's okay," he leaned in to the laptop, and whispered conspiratorially, "I got my pits waxed first."

"Meeeep," went Sam.

"Yes, whoever would've guessed at Sam's hidden depths?" Ronnie smiled dangerously. "So insightful, so helpful, so supportive. So suicidal..."

"I didn't, I didn't," wailed Sam, "I't wasn't meeeee..."

"The lady who did my hair was so nice," Dean chattered on, "She made some suggestions and sent one of her employees to help me shop..."

"Did she help you to smear that shit all over your face as well?" demanded Ronnie.

"Oh, no, that was Angie," Dean explained. "She showed me this stuff called mineral make-up. It's amazing! It evens out a complexion, and downplays your scar. She did my colours for me. I got some stuff in a Winter palette – see how the blue-grey shadow brings out your eyes?" He batted his eyelashes at the laptop. "And the charcoal liner and mascara is good for daytime. It has a softening effect. I've got black too, but it's a lot more dramatic. Strictly for after dark." He grinned, and fished in one of the bags. "Speaking of which, I saw this, and couldn't resist." He brandished a lipstick in a dark burgundy. "It's called... She-Wolf! And it's totally the perfect red tone for your skin..."

"Another one of your brilliant ideas, Sam?" enquired Ronnie tartly.

"That wasn't me!" Sam protested, "The make-up is totally his fault!"

"Samuel Winchester, for this I will end you..." Ronnie muttered ominously. "Right after I get back into my own body, clean that crap off it, and disembowel your brother with his own mascara wand..."

"Aaaaand, it matches this perfectly!" Dean enthused, reaching into a bag and pulling out a deep red item. "No male werewolf will be able to resist me when I wear this!"

Ronnie cocked her head. "What is that?" she asked, genuinely curious, "Is that a hair scrunchy or something?"

"No, it's a top!" Dean trilled, holding it against himself to demonstrate.

"That's not a top!" Ronnie squawked, "That's two handkerchiefs sewn together down the sides! You are _not_ going out _anywhere_ dressed in _that_!"

"Who died and made you my mother?" demanded Dean.

"Um, she might have a point, sis," Sam interjected, "You might not have much in the, er, freeboobing department, but what you do have will fall out of that..."

"Hey, it's okay," Dean reassured then, "I've got a suitable undergarment. I don't want to look like a total slut, or anything," he added haughtily. "And so... ta-dah!" He waved aloft another garment.

"What the hell is that?" asked Bobby, scratching his head again. "It looks like some sort of slingshot..."

"It's a strapless push-up bra," Dean told them, "For this, I am prepared to wear a modestly torturous torture device for a little while."

"There's not much point to a push-up bra unless you have something to push up," Ronnie snapped snidely, "And let's be realistic, I'm more Keira Knightley than Dolly Parton in the, er, push-uppable department."

"And that, viewers, is where modern science comes to the rescue!" Dean enthused, triumphantly brandishing two... things. "Behold, polymer science's boon to small-chested womankind – I give you... the chicken fillets!" He smiled winningly.

"God's tits," breathed Bobby.

"Mine, actually," Dean smiled happily. "And they give me an honest-to-Cas rack!"

"Kill me now," squeaked Sam.

"Happy to oblige you," Ronnie grated out. "You, your brother..."

"Sister," corrected Dean breezily, holding the deep red top against his chest again.

"Fine, fine, you, your sister-brother, your car, and those, those, those things..."

"I don't know whether to say 'Well done, Professor Higgins' or 'Nice going, Dr Frankenstein'," Bobby chortled to Sam, "Because you have created a monster, son."

"It will not be quick, and it will not be pleasant, and before I am done you will be begging for death..." Ronnie continued to mutter.

"Best see it doesn't escape, and start scarin' local folk," Bobby couldn't stifle the grin entirely, "And keep, er, her away from windmills, just in case."

"And as for your brother, I will strangle him with his own depraved garmentry..."

"Well, I'm gonna go have a soak in the tub before we head out," chirped Dean, "These heels are pretty tame, but I get the feeling this body isn't used to wearing anything except boots."

"I will then violate his twitching, still-warm corpse intimately with that lipstick," Ronnie was starting to growl. Sam almost expected to see fangs start to pop out of Dean's face.

"I know!" Dean was struck by inspiration, "I'm gonna get the other laptop, I should totally make a video of my haul! See you later, guys!" 'Dee' gathered up 'her' purchases, and headed out to her own room next door.

"Further, I will take a great delight in standing astride his pyre and passing water over it..."

"Andrew, I think that now might be a good time to have a talk with Ronnie until she's feeling a bit less homicidal", suggested Bobby tactfully.

The only answer he got was a low rumbling growl, as Andrew continued to stare into the monitor.

Ronnie's eyes widened. "You... you can't possibly have been looking at... me... like that... he... I... I looked..."

"Amazing," Andrew rumbled, leaning in and sniffing deeply at 'Dean' 's neck. "You look amazing like that."

"I... er... really?" Ronnie sounded uncertain.

"Oh, dear," muttered Bobby, with a resigned shrug. "Oh well, anthropologists and psychobiologists tell us that males tend towards being visually stimulated creatures..."

Sam stared in horror as his brother's body smiled a small surprised smile, and exposed his throat for Andrew to sniff again.

"Den with me," Andrew rumbled, barely comprehensible in human language, "Den with me, beautiful bitch..."

"I think I'll go gouge out my eyes with a spork now," said Sam faintly.

"You do that," instructed Bobby, "And as soon as I've thrown a bucket of cold water over these two idjits, I want to borrow it too."

Sam cut the connection just as Dean poked his head back in through the door, grateful that Dean hadn't witnessed what his body had just been doing.

"Did I leave something behind?" asked Dean. "Aha!" he crowed as he spotted the pink-striped bag. Sam's stomach rolled, and a large number of his neurons began to howl in protest at being required to think 'Dean' and 'Victoria's Secret' both in association. "It's a shame I didn't get to show Ronnie what I bought her from here," he went on, oblivious to the green colour his baby brother's face was turning, "Do you think we should call them back again?"

"Not unless you want to die a death that is painful, protracted, rectally pigmented and stinks of urine," sighed Sam. "After you endure watching your own body do something with another guy that would probably make a number of fangirls squee hard enough to disrupt wifi access across the country."

"Oh." 'Dee' shrugged philosophically. "The catalogue is nothing, nothing, like actually being able to go into the store and look at stuff, without the staff thinking you're some sort of pervert."

"Technically, in that respect, you are some kind of pervert," Sam pointed out.

"Well, there's other stuff besides the bra," Dean began to enthuse again, "I got..."

"Dee," Sam said calmly, "You say one more word, or show me a single item out of that bag, and I will load my gun with silver ammo, and fill you so full of holes that you will be a tea strainer fit for the Queen of England. And I know for a fact that I will have Ronnie's full support in this. She will thank me with tears of gratitude in her eyes."

"You can be such a prude, Sam," 'Dee' ruffled her brother's hair fondly. "But I forgive you, because you're my brother." 'She' looked thoughtful. "Do you think I should model this stuff in my vid?" she asked thoughtfully.

"Sure, go ahead," Sam waved expansively, feeling himself start to gibber. "Whatever makes you feel good about yourself. Because that is the point of the exercise. Why don't you do a make-up demo, too? For other women like yourself, who have been hesitant to use make-up, because they don't even know where to start, and feel too unlovely to even try?"

"That is a great idea, Sam!" 'Dee' positively sang. "And I'm going to credit you with being my inspiration! This foundation is fantastic, and guess what it's called? 'Come Again'! Isn't that hilarious?" He headed back to his own room again, leaving Sam blinking and wondering what exactly he had done.

On the one hand, it was not likely that Ronnie would ever find Dean's video, if he made it.

On the other hand, if she did, she would be likely to go after Dean first, which, with a bit of luck, would give Sam an opportunity to load his gun with silver, lay a hand on a silver knife, or, to be really sure, move to Mars.

He pulled his laptop towards himself, and headed for the homepage of a local newspaper. He wanted to check out some back issues for articles about an apparent 'turf war' between a couple of alleged drug dealing syndicates in the last few weeks.

While he did that, he ate his way through nearly a whole packet of peanut butter double crunch cookies.

* * *

><p>As requested by Kepouros: Reviews are the Winchester of Your Choice Asleep In The Impala with 'Property Of [YourNameHere]' Written In Eye-Liner With The Sentence Disappearing Into The Waistband Of His Pants in the Parking Lot Of Life! (Who rubs on the cold cream to get the make-up off, you lot sort it out amongst you.)<p> 


	17. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

"Are you ready yet?" asked Sam plaintively, looking at his watch.

"Just another couple of minutes," called Dean from his room.

"You said that fifteen minutes ago!" Sam called back, exasperated, "And another ten minutes before that! Come on, you said you were getting changed..." he paused, and went on more reluctantly. "Er, you haven't, you know, changed _changed_, as opposed to just _changed_ changed, and got stuck again, have you?"

"No, Sam, I'm still as close to human as this body ever gets," Dean replied.

"Well, if you want to head out before the next full moon, you might want to... er," Sam stuttered to a halt when the door to his brother's room opened, and 'Dee' stepped out.

"Well?" 'she' grinned, and turned on the spot, "What do you think? How do I look?"

"Taller," answered Sam, glancing down at his 'sister' 's feet. "Er, have you considered the possibility that Ronnie might be quite annoyed if you break her ankles falling off a pair of CFM boots that should probably come with an oxygen tank?"

"Not really," Dee replied breezily, "Because I won't fall over."

"Right, right," nodded Sam, continuing his examination of his brother's efforts.

"Hey, Sam," said Dee.

"Yeah?" replied Sam.

"My face is up here," Dee scolded playfully, watching Sam's face flush slightly. "Hey, it's okay," she offered understandingly, "I totally understand if you want to look. It's amazing, isn't it? I got cleavage! Thanks to my pert plastic pals, Henny Penny and Foghorn Leghorn, putting the 'Ooooh!' in boobs, the look in palookas, the fun in funbags, the gaze in gazongas..."

"Okay, I get the idea, you're happy with your chest," Sam cut in, wondering if the whole self-esteem boosting thing had gone too far. A certain small resentful voice in the back of his mind muttered that it might've been less trying all around just to keep buying cookies, chocolate and ice-cream. "And you've, er, touched up your make-up. With a trowel."

"It's called smokey eyes, Sam," Dee grinned, batting dark lashes at him, "And it's totally hot. So, how do I look?"

"Honestly?" asked Sam reluctantly.

"Of course honestly, bitch," replied Dee.

Sam swallowed. "Well," he began, "If I had to come up with a description, I'd say... love child of Marlene Dietrich and Chuck Norris."

"Yeah? I thought Katherine Hepburn, and Peter Cushing," commented Dee. 'She' suddenly looked uncertain. "Chuck Norris? I thought my top lip felt a bit fuzzy." She touched the potentially offending feature. "I should have had Jenny wax it when she did my eyebrows. I got tweezers, I can just go get rid of any really obvious hairs..."

"No, no, you're fine," Sam quickly reassured his 'sister', "What I meant was, you look like a woman that guys will want to mess with, but nobody except a guy who's really self-confident and sure of himself would dare to mess with."

Dee smiled broadly. "Well, that's what we're aiming for," 'she' confirmed, "We want Mr Alpha Male Feral Fido to break cover. Don't just stand there, Francis, to the Wolfmobile! I don't have all night."

"Yeah, okay, sorry to keep you waiting," Sam muttered, as Dee sauntered to the Impala, with Jimi bouncing happily around his Alpha. "I don't suppose those heels mean that you can put the seat back a bit?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

It was incongruously normal, thought Sam's bemused brain, as he sipped his beer and watched his brother – sister? It was making his head ache – at the pool table. It was a complete contrast to their previous attempt at a bar visit with Dean in a female body. Dean walked into the bar like he owned the place, radiating the kind of smug self-confidence that could make women want to sleep with him and men want to fight with him; they could only hope that tonight it would work the other way around. It was almost like the antithesis of Ronnie's usual Don't Fuck With Me field, Sam thought idly. More of a You Know You Want To Fuck With Me field.

He watched as Dean played pool, flashing that smile, and letting a distracted opponent get a good look at his most recently acquired assets every time the poor guy lined up a shot. 'Dee' managed to do everything... suggestively. 'She' sauntered around the table suggestively. She lined up her shots suggestively. She stood watching her hapless opponent suggestively – as he was trying to set up a rebound shot, she stood opposite him, and made some of her tattoos dance. She sipped her drink suggestively. And the way she chalked her cue, well, Sam just hoped that there weren't any off-duty cops watching, because it was bound to infringe some law about public indecency.

Thankfully, she apparently managed to do it without pissing anyone off, charming males and females alike.

"I won, Sammy!" chirped Dee, making her way back to the small table tucked away where Sam was staying inconspicuous and watching for anything or anybody suspicious, "Breakfast tomorrow is on me! You can have all the scrambled egg whites and fried lettuce your little heart desires!"

"That's great, er, sis," Sam answered. "You, er, certainly seem to have your Living Sex... Deity mojo working again."

"I feel gorgeous, Sam," Dee sighed happily, "I feel better than gorgeous, I feel interesting, and Jenny thinks that's better than pretty. And the best thing?" She sipped her drink. "I can ogle the women, I can talk to the women, and nobody is going to throw a punch at me for hitting on their girlfriend!"

"What exactly is that you're drinking?" Sam asked curiously, eyeing the brightly coloured drink, complete with bendy straw, swizzle stick and skewered maraschino.

"It's called a Wolf's Paw," grinned Dee, "And it's awesome."

"Did I really see you offer your swizzle stick to the guy you were playing pool with, and ask him if he wanted to eat your cherry?" Sam enquired reluctantly.

"Uh-huh," Dee grinned evilly, "Just before he went in off the black." She slowly extracted the red morsel from the stick carefully with her teeth, clearly aware that at least three men were watching her do it.

"That's practically cheating, you know," Sam accused.

"It's hustling, Sam," Dee shot back dismissively, "And chicks have done it to me often enough. It's the Revenge Of The Boobs! Besides," she continued, "He had the pleasure of my company and my attention, so for him, it was totally worth the money."

"That sounds worryingly close to prostitution," Sam huffed, "Just how much did the poor sap pay for the pleasure of your company?"

Dee beamed That Smile at Sam. "Youngster," she rumbled, "If you have to ask, you can't afford me." She downed the rest of the drink. "There's no alpha male action here, Sam," she went on, "I think it's time to try somewhere else. I'll get some wings for Jimi, then we can go."

Sam wondered if this was what it was like for Viktor Frankenstein. Apart from the lipstick and alcohol. And the developing urge to pick up a pitchfork himself.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"Well, I gotta admit, Sam, I actually had fun, despite myself," sighed Dee happily as the Impala slid into the lot of their motel, Jimi snuffling contentedly in the back seat and letting out the occasional post-wings burp.

"I wish my knees could say the same thing," grumped Sam, wincing as he unfolded himself from the reduced leg room of shotgun.

"I mean, how often do I get to go out to bars and look like I'm having a good time as part of a job?" Dee went on. "Trawling myself as bait is never this much fun! Usually, it's dusty old houses, or damp crypts, or stinky swamps, or getting tied up, and that's usually only fun out of hours and with the right woman..."

"What were you drinking with that bearded guy?" asked Sam, giving his gender-bending brother a dose of Bitchface #6™ (I SO Do NOT Want To Hear The Gory Details Of One Of Your Sexual Conquests, Jerk). "It looked like contaminated coolant from a nuclear reactor."

"No, that was Jeff," corrected Dee, "I was doing Toxic Waste shots with Jeff. You're thinking of Kyle, he had the beard. I was drinking Wolf Bites with him. Beat them both, too." She grinned smugly. "Of course, Kyle only pretended he was literally under the table, horny asshole, he was trying to get fresh."

Sam looked appalled. "What? He... Dean, er, Dee, why didn't you say something? You should've told me!"

"What? Squeal and swoon, so my little brother could ride to my rescue?" Dee sniffed disdainfully. "Haven't you heard, Sammy? Sisters are doing it for themselves, you know."

Sam frowned. "Dee, what exactly did you do for yourself?"

"You know that thing Ronnie does with walnuts?" prompted Dee, "Between her knees?"

"You did the thing with the walnuts?" Sam looked confused.

"I did the thing with his head," Dee smiled angelically.

"Oh God," sighed Sam.

"That's exactly what he said, funnily enough," chattered Dee, "Several times. I think perhaps he thought he saw Nirvana."

"Or his own brains, coming down his nose," Sam scolded.

"It's okay," Dee waved a hand dismissively, "One of his friends was going to take him to A&E."

"Are you trying to get arrested?" demanded Sam.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sam!" scoffed Dee, "No guy is ever going to go to the police and complain, 'Help help help, I was trying to get into a woman's pants without asking first and she crushed my head between her knees I now I have an owie and I want you to charge her with assault'. No male ego could cope with making a statement like that. I know, I have one."

"Well, I gotta contact Bobby," said Sam, pulling out his key, "I promised him I'd keep him informed on the trawling for Fido."

"I gotta get these boots off," Dee flounced a little, "They're very attractive, but I think they need to break in a bit more. And I gotta cleanse and tone, too."

"Fine you go do that," Sam waved at him, "You go do your... Secret Women's Business." He let himself into his room, fired up his laptop, and opened Skype. He knew from experience that the evening skincare routine could be time-consuming, and he'd have plenty of time to talk to Bobby undisturbed.

"Any luck with finding Fido?" Bobby wanted to know.

"Not yet, but not for lack of trying," Sam told him, relating Dean's completely different approach following 'her' make-over. "Apparently, now he feels like a pretty pretty princess, so he's acting like, well, frankly, like a she-wolf on the prowl."

"That's what he, er, she, is supposed to be doin'," Bobby pointed out.

"The thing is, I'm not sure how much of it is acting, and how much of it is just Dean being Dee," sighed Sam. "He seems to be enjoying himself, even if he's leaving a trail of broken arms and fractured skulls in his wake."

Bobby frowned. "I'm starting to think that the trick to breaking this curse may lie in that direction," he confided. "It may be through truly embracing his feminine side, his female energy, that Dean pleases the Mahavidyas, and cracks it."

Sam paled. "Exactly how, uh, extensively does he have to 'embrace' his feminine side?" he asked, not sure he wanted to know the answer.

"That, I haven't worked out yet," Bobby admitted, "But just be aware that it's a possibility. It could be... socially awkward if he's chatting up Feral Fido, and suddenly, zap, he's back in his own body."

"Of course, if it's zap, and suddenly Ronnie's back in that body, this will be a lot easier," Sam mused.

"Is that Sam?" demanded Dean's voice from off-screen. "Did he wear that... handkerchief top in public?" Ronnie growled, sitting down beside Bobby.

"No! No! I wouldn't let him," Sam shook his head vigorously, "We talked about it, and decided that it would be a bad idea. I insisted. We don't want him to be too... forward. In fact, he nearly crushed a guy's skull when the guy tried to get too friendly."

"Good," Ronnie grunted, "See that it stays that way."

"Yeah, Sam," Bobby waggled his eyebrows meaningfully, "See that it stays that way."

"I will. And I'll make sure that, er, she knows that you both told her to keep it toned down."

"And decently covered," specified Ronnie.

"Absolutely, toned down, decently covered, and ladylike at all times..."

"Hey, bitch, get your ass over here," demanded Dean, letting himself in and stomping over to Sam. "I can't get my other boot off, you'll have to help... oh, hi Bobby, Ronnie," 'Dee' waved breezily, then stood back, hands on hips. "So, what do you think? The triumph of fashion over nature, yes?"

"Fuck," muttered Sam.

Ronnie's jaw dropped as she took in the picture of her own body dressed for after dark, and she drew breath to let out an inarticulate roar of rage.

"We'll sign off now," said Bobby briskly, clapping a hand over Ronnie's mouth, "Because we don't want to wake Andrew up, and we'll go and discuss developments in the situation like calm and rational adults. You mind what I said, Sam. And I'm sure that Dean, as Dee, will continue to be a complete lady, and not allow herself to be drawn into any unseemly behaviour of a lewd nature with any men. Right, Dee?"

"What? Oh, absolutely," agreed Dee, "They can look, but they can't touch. I mean it is me in here, and I am so not the pillow-biting type. But maybe I can use this body to strike up conversations with women, and introduce them to my baby bro here." Dee looked suddenly enthused about the idea. "Dude, I can totally be your wingwoman! You need to get laid, Sam."

Ronnie's expression was extremely eloquent. In the glare of his brother's body's eyes, Sam saw accusation, fury, and hints about impending removal of certain body organs without benefit of anaesthetic or surgical instruments.

"Okay, well, er, we'll keep you updated," he said eventually, smiling sheepishly as the connection cut.

"Boot," said Dee, unceremoniously putting the offending item, with the foot still lodged in it, in Sam's lap.

"I really don't think Ronnie needed to see you like that," he muttered as he worked the boot of Dee's foot. "She didn't cope so well with Make-over Lite, and then you spring that... outfit on her."

"She doesn't know what she's got, here," Dee stated.

"She has a pair-bonded mate," Sam said firmly.

"Well, she could dress up a little for him, now and then," Dean insisted, "Guys like that sort of thing. Andrew liked it."

"You do realise that after this, we're both going to have to sleep with silver knives and guns loaded with silver ammo under our pillows forever?" Sam sighed.

"You know what? When we've done this job and Bobby has broken this curse, I'll do a make-up lesson for her," Dee beamed. "I did a video earlier. I should do some more. For hair, too. And wrangling your chicken fillets for the best results. What better way to learn than to watch yourself doing it? She'll totally love it!"

Look on the bright side, Sam thought to himself glumly as Dee left, presumably to perform her evening skin care rituals, at the very least, we know that Bobby will salt and burn us properly, if there's anything left. And at least the coroner who investigates the Death Caused By Perforation Of The Bowel Inflicted By A Lipstick will have an amusing story to tell in the lunch room.

He found the packet, and ate the rest of the double crunch peanut butter cookies.

* * *

><p>A moment of silence, please, to acknowledge the sad but inevitable demise of the real Oinker Stoinker, a much-played-with, much-chased and much-chewed blue squeaky pig toy who has had his nose chewed off, his left ear chewed off, his tail chewed off, his stomach chewed open, all his stuffing pulled out, and his honker dehonked. It's the usual fate for dog toys (if they don't suffer prolapse of the squeaker, it's traumatic radical bisection, especially now with two dogs to play tug-of-war). He will be remembered. But only until he is replaced, and mutilated anew. Meanwhile, I hold grave fears for the wellbeing of Pink Squeaky Fluffy Pig - he's already lost a leg.<p>

As per knivespast's suggestion, a series of educational tutorials might be just what Ronnie needs. To help her find her own feminine energy, or to finally push her over the edge into Deanicide. What other wisdom could Dee possibly have to impart to her, or to other avid watchers of YouTube, I wonder? Any suggestions will be run past the plot bunny.

Reviews are the Winchester of Your Choice Eyeing You Suggestively Across the Pool Table of Life!


	18. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

"So, I think this guy might be doing exactly what Ronnie does," Sam said.

"Uh-huh." 'Dee' had her phone sandwiched between shoulder and ear whilst she filed at a nail, pausing to sip her latte.

"There's been some isolated but persistent attacks, apparently some tit-for-tat type violence between some local drug suppliers," Sam went on.

"Uh-huh," went Dee again, peering into the napkin holder and dabbing delicately at a perceived imperfection in her lipstick.

"The thing is, they're all denying it," Sam persisted. "Police and a couple of editors are theorising about 'rogue individuals'."

"Right, right," Dee nodded, fishing a lipstick out apparently from thin air. Sam wondered idly whether it was a manifestation of Dean's ability to have a knife, a flask of booze and a condom with him at all times, because it did seem that Dee was able to carry around unobtrusively on her person enough cosmetics to keep Pamela Anderson, Cher or possibly Marilyn Manson going for a fortnight.

"Of course, none of them are co-operating with the cops." Sam continued, "But I think that the guy you scared half to death last night outside that bar might have... are you even listening to me?"

"Mm-hmm," Dee pouted and smiled, satisfied that gorgeousness had been restored. "No, that was at my brother. He thinks I never listen to him. Of course I do! When he has something worthwhile to say. Yeah, tell me about it. Baby brothers. Really? Uh-huh. Yeah. Something went wrong just as he was conceived, I'm pretty sure he was supposed to be a girl. He's so much prettier than me. Cries a lot more, too. Picky eater. No, I've seen it, it was definitely there... I changed his diapers, you dirty cow, that's how! Actually, we should totally introduce him to Amy. He needs to get laid just as bad as she does. Maybe I can offer her a lift home, or get Sam to come and pick us up and..." Dee glanced at Sam, and rolled her eyes. "Hang on, no, I'm getting Bitchface Number Five, that's the one that means 'My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk', so that's a no-go. Pity. They could've emo-ed at each other all night. Yeah, see you then. Bye." She shut her phone, and picked up her coffee again. "So, Feral Fido is rolling the local lowlife, they all think it's each other, they're not talking to the cops, who are probably worried about a possible spillover of violence hurting somebody who's just minding their own business." She smiled smugly at Sam. "Of course I listen to you, baby bro. After all, I gotta get my amusement from somewhere."

"Fine," humphed Sam. "As I was trying to tell you, that guy you scared half to death last night..."

"Three-quarters, at least," she grinned unrepentantly. "I think I'm getting a better handle on, you know, the change thing."

"Yeah, well that guy..."

"Hang on, which one?" Dean suddenly looked confused. "Is this the guy in the alley I rolled on the way in, the one who wet himself, or the guy who didn't like getting beaten at pool by a chick, and tried to get his money back on the way out, the one who cried?"

"The one who cried," Sam looked distinctly unimpressed. "He went to the police."

"What a baby," sneered Dee dismissively, examining the offending nail again. "I chipped a nail, after Angie did such a nice job on them, too..."

"The point is," Sam soldiered on, the way a vicar will keep making polite conversation with a slightly batty elderly parishioner even as her odiferous small yappy dog makes passionate love to his ankle, "Is that an ostensibly ordinary citizen has now told the local cops that he was robbed by an armed woman with a scarred face."

"I wasn't armed," argued Dean, "Well, actually, I was, but it doesn't count as a weapon if it springs out of the end of your fingertips..."

"Well, he told the cops you were," Sam insisted.

"And I should care because...?" Dee responded.

"You should care because you have now drawn attention to yourself!" snapped Sam.

"Of course I've drawn attention to myself!" Dee sighed like a teacher trying to get a particularly backward child to understand that one plus one does not equal 'dinosaur'. "Isn't that the whole point? Word gets out, there's a woman who doesn't take crap from any guy – okay, well, she takes money from them, but not crap – and isn't afraid to use her obviously impressive physique to get what she wants." Dee sat back and stretched, letting her arms flex – somewhere, she'd found a shirt with arrows pointing left and right, and the text 'GUN SHOW' on it. "That's exactly the sort of scuttlebutt that Feral Fido is going to get a whiff of."

"He'll certainly get a whiff of something," scowled Sam. "You've drenched yourself in that stuff."

"I've enhanced my natural personal scent with a creation of my own," pouted Dee. "The guy running the perfume workshop said I had a natural talent, and some of the other girls wanted some for themselves. I call it 'Full Moon'."

"You should just have called it 'The Stench Of Rutting' and been done with it," Sam opined. "I still think we should check it out – there's something not right about it. The guys in the bars last night were sniffing at you like you were a bitch in heat. If it's some he-witch, messing with attraction or love potions, we should..."

"Aint nothing supernatural about it, Sammy," Dee grinned, "The Living Sex God has encountered enough women with, _ahem_, frisky business on their minds to know what enhances that aromatically. If it's good enough for the animal kingdom, it's good enough for me." She looked at Sam almost sympathetically. "I'm not sure why it doesn't work on you, whether it's because you're my brother, or because you're such a big girl yourself." She consulted her watch. "Anyway, I have to get changed, and get going."

"What?" Sam looked bemused. "Where? I thought your perfume thing was yesterday!"

"It was," Dee rolled her eyes, "That was Rachel's, she was raising money for her honeymoon – Angie thought I might like to come along. Today is Karen's Avon party – she's just getting started, so Angie invited along as many people as she could think of. I did tell you, you know," she added reproachfully.

"It was probably while you were doing something else," grumped Sam. "All right, have fun."

"I will," Dee grinned, "We'll probably go for drinks afterwards, so don't wait up."

"What?" Sam was suddenly concerned. "Dean, er, Dee, I don't like the idea of you trawling for Feral Fido by yourself..."

"I am insulted, Sam," sniffed Dee disdainfully. "Has it occurred to you that the last thing a woman really needs, if she's out looking for frisky times, is her baby brother sitting in the corner looking like someone's just taken away his teddy bear?"

"Dee, I do not sit in the corner looking like I've lost my teddy bear!"

"You totally do!" replied Dee. "You sit there, looking like you'd rather be making love to your stamp collection or watching 'Twilight'. And while some chicks find that Little-Boy-Lost look attractive, you're not even going to let me introduce women to you." Dee cocked her head, and looked thoughtful. "I really should introduce you to Amy," she pronounced, "I'll explain that you're shy, and inexperienced, and that if she agrees to leave the lights off you might just be able to do it without crying..."

"I think I'm getting a headache," muttered Sam.

"Trust you to use such a female excuse," Dee snorted. "Well, you can stay in tonight, rest your poor overheated brain. Relax, do something you find fun, you know, like sort your socks, polish your hairbrush, embroider your underwear, look at pictures of Gothic architecture online, find a fascinating documentary on the history of navel fluff on the TV. Oh, and see if you can get the other laptop running properly, will you? It's really slow."

"Yeah, sure," sighed Sam, thinking that a history of navel fluff might be a bit more stimulating than what he really wanted – if anything, Dean was even more exhaustingly annoying as a big sister.

"Thanks, Sammy," Dee grinned, infuriatingly cheerful. "If you're really good, I'll get you some matching shampoo and conditioner, maybe some volumising spritz to keep those luscious locks looking lovely..."

Sam feared that no amount of volumising spritz would help, because he was pretty sure that a few more days of Dean being in touch with his feminine cosmic energy would result in him tearing out his hair or losing it to stress. He wondered idly if Avon did a line of skull polish in their men's grooming products.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

In an alternative, gentler existence, Sam might've found himself one day, as a middle-aged lawyer, bemoaning the fact that whenever the insinkerator needed unblocking, the range hood needed degreasing, the kids' bathroom drain needed unclogging or the dog's anal glands needed expressing, as the Man Of The House, the job would fall to him. In Real Life, however, cleaning up their second laptop whenever Dean had glugged it up with assorted malware fell to him as the Geek Of The House, so to speak.

Perhaps it wasn't as physically grubby as pulling giant hairballs and the occasional piece of toy car out of a shower drain, but wrangling the laptop after Dean had been avidly downloading from Nublie Naughty Nudist Nympho Nurses, or whatever site was currently his Favourite Depravity Of The Week, could sometimes throw up nasty surprises (he was pretty sure that no real nurse would ever perform that sort of an, er, examination on anyone, let alone another nurse). Sometimes, it was enough to make him long for a greasy kitchen, or a dog scooting its ass across the lawn.

After taking a certain petty satisfaction in deleting some of the virus-riddled stuff that Dean had begged him to save if at all possible, he started the web browser to check that the damned thing was up to speed. He picked a link and gritted his teeth, preparing to be directed to something of a decidedly adult (and possibly bordering on illegal, if not immoral or anatomically improbable).

What he did not expect was to be directed to YouTube. To Channel Dee, in fact...

"The thing is, I just thought of myself as unattractive," Ronnie Shepherd's face told him frankly, "And I'm really annoyed at myself that it took my little brother to point out to me just how ridiculous I was being!" She smiled The Smile. "Accentuate the positive, he said – and he was totally right! So, thanks, Sammy, for being an awesome baby bro! He made me feel better about myself, and I hope this will help somebody else I know feel better about herself." She waggled her eyebrows in a way that was utterly Dean. "Not looking at anyone in particular out there in YouTube land,_ cough_-Ronnie-_cough_... Now, to start with, I've discovered that makeup is not nearly as scary as it looks. It's amazing what a difference just a little bit can make! So, this is what Angie the miracle worker showed me. This thing, that looks like the south end of a northbound raccoon, this is your foundation brush. And this stuff, don't laugh, is concealer. Yeah, I was convinced it was green lipstick, but just work with me on this one..."

Sam's eyes bugged in horror as he watched Dee's instructional video. Judging by the comments, a lot of women found them educational, and askef for more. Dee had obliged. Daytime makeup, makeup after dark, eyebrow taming, hair to suit a heavier jaw, and then, then, oh, God, maximising your 'assets' for special occasions...

"These things are the greatest invention since pie! And sex. And alcoholic beverages. And the internal combustion engine. And Magic Fingers beds. And the internet. And chocolate. And cable. And mineral foundation. Okay, but they're still pretty awesome. So, this is how you rack 'em up..."

Sam teetered on the edge of a panic attack momentarily before rational thought kicked in. Calm down, he told himself, the internet is a big place – what are the chances of Ronnie ever actually seeing those videos? It's not like she'd ever go looking for makeup tutorials online. He could relax; they were perfectly safe...

His cell buzzed. He grabbed for it, expecting Dean to be calling, but it was Bobby.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam began, "How's it going at Werewolf General?"

"Well, that's what I'd like to talk to you about," replied Bobby in a strangely calm tone, "Since I can't get hold of your idjit brother. Or sister. Right now, I got one werewolf stuck in four-legged form and drooling uncontrollably, and another one locked back in the panic room threatening to tear the place apart."

"Dean's out having drinks with the girls," Sam explained, "After an Avon party. He's turned out to be something of a, uh, personal makeover guru."

"Really?" continued Bobby. "Because I would've said 'suicidal idjit'."

"Huh? Bobby, what's going on?" Sam was genuinely bemused.

Bobby sighed heavily at his end of the line. "Son," he said, "I suggest you pack your stuff, go find the Beauty School Dropout, and leave the country. Canada isn't far enough. Nowhere in this hemisphere is safe, probably. In fact, I suggest you head for Australia, it's the one place she'll think twice about headin' back to..."

"Oh, God," Sam groaned, "What happened, Bobby?"

"Well, your 'big sister Dee' sent Andrew a couple of rather interesting web links, and Ronnie found 'em. Sam, are you familiar with a website called YouTube?"

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"What did you say this was called?" asked Angie's friend Rachel, the one who'd held the make-your-own-perfume party the previous day.

"A Wolf's Paw," replied Dee, "Aren't they awesome?"

"Totally!" Rachel grinned, finishing hers, "I'm getting another one!"

"Hold that thought," Dee forestalled her, "I'll get you one. I'm rich, remember? Hey, who wants another drink?" Several hands went up amongst the group of happily chattering women.

"Where did you learn to play pool like that, anyway?" asked Angie, when Dee returned with the drinks.

"From my Dad," Dee replied.

"Did he teach you to punch guys who try to pike out of paying up, too?" grinned Amy.

"Absolutely," Dee grinned right back, picking up her own drink. "So, what are we drinking to?"

"Awesome Dads!" suggested Karen.

"Punching asshole guys!" suggested Rachel.

"Sex," sighed Amy, "I'll drink to that."

"To being fucking gorgeous," declared Dee, raising her glass.

"To fucking gorgeousness!" giggled the others, clinking glasses.

Dee was enjoying herself – she never would've believed that it could happen, as her new acquaintances talked about everything and nothing, but it was fun.

The others gradually took their leave, eventually leaving Dee to her own devices. As she smiled and waved to the last one, she turned back to the pool table, thinking that she might try for another game or two, then move on to another bar; the group of Avon party goers had amused themselves discussing the perceived and imagined strong points and failings of every just about every guy in the bar, but there was no werewolf alpha male action there...

"Dee?" a female voice brought her out of her scan of the patrons, and she turned to see a woman who looked vaguely familiar. "Dee, is that you?"

"Uh... Shannon, isn't it?" Dee recognised the diner waitress, and smiled warmly. "Sorry, you look really different out of your uniform." She did. Had he been in his own body, Dean would definitely have identified her as a potential partner for a beautiful, natural act, then spent an amusing amount of time annoying Sam by complaining about the fact that too many really hot chicks batted for the other team.

Of course, right now he wasn't exactly in his own body...

"_I _look different?" the woman smiled incredulously. "I almost didn't recognise you! You look... great! You didn't call me," she pouted playfully.

"Well, I was kinda..." Dee grinned sheepishly. "I didn't feel like... company. I was having a Fat Frump day."

"Well, you seem to have gotten over than now," Shannon smiled, and moved closer. "You play?" she indicated the table, and arched an eyebrow in a way that suggested she might be referring to something more than pool.

"Oh, yeah," Dean's grin changed from sheepish to confident, "But only for stakes, and I warn you, I'm awesome."

"I'll bet you are," Shannon practically purred.

"So," Dee picked up a cue, smirking, "What you wanna play for?"

Shannon looked thoughtful, then leaned in close to whisper in Dee's ear.

The expression on Dee's face became recognisable as Dean Winchester's Killer Smile. "Lady," she announced, "This evening, you are going to get your fluffy butt whupped."

"I do hope so," Shannon replied, "Toss you for the break."

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Sam put his phone away, glanced at his watch, and sighed. Relative peace had been restored at Casa Singer: Bobby had calmed Ronnie down after she found Dee's online tutorials, several beers had helped Andrew get back to more-or-less human, the house was still standing, and Bobby thought he had a lead on what exactly might break the whole Freaky Friday curse, but couldn't say until he'd translated a passage from an obscure text he'd been consulting. All in all, he thought as the rumble of the Impala pulling into the lot reached his ears, it was as close to under control as they ever managed to get.

He frowned; had been reading, ostensibly putting off going to bed in case Dee needed help with her boots again, but she didn't come into his room. Which was a shame, because Sam was feeling thoroughly peeved, and what he really wanted to do was give his 'big sister' a lecture about sensible computer usage, including the perils of downloading porn and uploading makeup tutorials...

His train of thought derailed spectacularly as he heard the low mutter of two female voices, and the giggles as the door to the next room opened.

Sam scowled. If Dean had brought home that Amy girl, and was planning to spring her on his little brother, it would be the last straw; he would grind 'her' lipstick into the sidewalk and make 'her' drink 'her' own bubble bath. Fuming, he pulled his boots back on, and stomped outside to Dean's room...

Where he stopped dead, jaw dropping in horror.

There was a sock on the door handle.

He heard giggles again.

_No..._

Mind reeling, he retreated to his own room with a startled squawk. He considered calling Bobby, Wildlife Control or the Fire Department – in the end, he went to bed, pulling the pillow over his head to drown out the noises audible through the thin walls.

A minute later, Jimi appeared through the wall, dragging his blanket, and shot under Sam's bed.

The two of them lay in the dark, whimpering.

"Tomorrow, we will kill him," Sam whispered to the big sad eyes under his bed, "You will bite him, and I will strangle him, then we will salt and burn him. And then, we will never speak of this night again."

Jimi burrowed further under his blanket.

Sam rolled over and prayed for sleep or death, whichever happened first – he wasn't fussy.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Dean might've been inhabiting a female body, but as Andrew had pointed out, the packaging wasn't that important, it was the person who was inside it that mattered.

And up until the day he died, wherever he was, whoever he was, Dean would be the Living Sex God, capable of living in the moment and enjoying that moment to the exclusion of all else, having no thought or attention except for the person with whom he was engaging in mutually consenting adult entertainment...

Which is how his phone ended up being butt-dialled.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

At Casa Singer, Bobby's phone chirped on the kitchen table. Ronnie was in the kitchen doing the dishes by way of apology to Bobby for her wolf-out over the discovery of Dee's tutorials. She heard the phone, and saw that it was a call from Dean, so she answered it, in case it was important.

The sounds she heard quickly informed her that what Dean was doing wasn't relevant to the case.

When Bobby came into the kitchen in search of beer, she merely turned the cell to speaker to let him hear for himself.

"Dean called," was all she said.

"Oh. Er." commented Bobby, his cheeks colouring slightly.

Ronnie carefully finished drying and putting away the dishes. "I'll be off to bed now, Bobby," she announced calmly, "See you in the morning."

Bobby sighed and shook his head. The only thing scarier than a rampaging she-werewolf was a plotting, scheming she-werewolf. He feared for Dean's body, he really did; after a moment of consideration, he decided that Ronnie was unlikely to risk making it bleed to death whilst she was in it by cutting off its genitals.

He made a mental note to contact Sam first thing in the morning to warn him. He could wire them the money for the plane tickets. It would be a shame to lose his boys, but he was pretty sure that they'd settle in quick enough Down Under. Dean would definitely enjoy the beer, large cars and open roads were a cultural norm and pies were practically the national dish.

* * *

><p>I think we might need to meet Feral Fido next chapter. But for now, Reviews are the Brightly Coloured Drinks Bought For You by the Winchester Of Your Choice in the Bar Of Life!<p>

On that topic, there will be NO happy fun time _on_ the Pool Table of Life. That would ruin the baize.


	19. Chapter 17

Aaaargh! Aaaaargh! Real Life conspires to keep me occupied with useless and irritating activities, like earning a living, and dealing with a husband who's turning into a Neurotic Dog Person, I've had teh sick, the bunny has gone shy, and then, Denizens, and then, fanficnet refused to let me upload a new chapter. Aaaaaaargh! Anyway, I did promise that Feral Fido would make an appearance. If anybody wants me, I'll be over there in the corner, huddled under the blanket, eating peanut butter out of the jar, and shouting incomprehensibly at anyone who gets too close (some of us have to keep an edge).

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Seventeen<strong>

"He what?" Sam's face drained of colour as he spoke into the phone. "He did? While they were... they were? She did? While they were still... she was? It did? She did? You did? You didn't! You really did? She was? They did? Oh. My. God. She did? She didn't? You didn't? Really? She did? She didn't! She hasn't? It isn't? She is? Right now? They are? Are you sure?... okay, I'll tell him. Yeah, me too. We stay in cheap places, the walls are thin. What has been heard cannot be unheard – whoever she was, she was a screamer... well, if I had to describe it, I'd say, more of a snarler... I can't believe you just asked me that! Jimi hid under my bed all night! I joined him about 2 a.m.! Yeah? Okay. If you think it's safe for us to stay on this continent for the time being... okay. Yeah. Okay. Get in line. Thanks, Bobby. Bye."

Sam shot his 'big sister' a look of pure Bitchface #13 (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust). "That was Bobby," he relayed tersely. "He had a bad night."

"Yeah?" Dee looked up distractedly from where she was stirring her coffee. "What happened? Andrew had a setback? Bobby lost a hat? Ronnie walked past a mirror and fainted when she saw the handsome devil looking at her?"

"Much worse," Sam looked completely unamused. "Were you aware that you butt-dialled Bobby while you were... getting acquainted with your... lady friend?"

"Did I?" Dee didn't look at all concerned, continuing to stir her coffee in a preoccupied way.

"Yes, you did, and he didn't get a wink of sleep all night."

"Whoa, Bobby, you dirty old man!" Dee grinned. "How long did he listen? I should charge five dollars a minute! Don't look at me like that, Francis; just because a guy is a bit older, doesn't mean he doesn't have certain needs – however old I get, I plan to be jerkin' the gherkin, and indeed stuffin' the muffin, on a regular basis, so in the unlikely event that I end up old enough for a nursing home, I will sell you for medical experiments if it's the only way I can afford a place with hot nurses..."

"Bobby didn't answer his phone," Sam said, "Ronnie did."

"Yeah?" A disbelieving smile crept over Dee's face. "You mean... she heard me and Shannon?"

"Yes, she heard you and Shannon," Sam confirmed. "Like about half of North Dakota."

"So, what? She got turned on, and howled all night? Kept both the guys awake? Awesome!" Dee looked pleased with herself. "It's the uptight ones that turn out to be the kinkiest, once they really let themselves go..."

"Bobby was not up all night eavesdropping on your sordid Sapphic scenario for his own gratification, nor was he up all night because Ronnie was indulging in some sort of vicarious imaginary threesome," Sam snapped, "He was up all night trying to figure out what she was planning to do! She was so angry, she just... stood there!"

Dee looked confused. "She... stood there?" He paused. "No fantasising, then? No howling? Not even a bit of panting?"

"No," Sam answered shortly. "She just stood there. And then... she went to bed."

"Aha!" Dee sounded triumphant. "She needed some Special Me-Time, yes?"

:She went to sleep," Sam informed him. "And now, she's... embroidering."

Dee's face clouded. "If that's some obscure term for it that you delicate fainting types called it at college..." she began.

"No, she's embroidering," repeated Sam, "As in, doing embroidery, as in, decorating fabric with coloured yarn. Something she learned at her grandmother's insistence, she told me once. She claims she finds it calming. She claims it's a bit like a moving meditation. She's just sitting there, embroidering."

"So, what's Bobby so worried about?" asked Dee.

"He says he feels like he's watching a nuke with the pin pulled," Sam relayed. "He also says he's next in line to kill you, after I'm finished with you, if Ronnie leaves anything when she finally goes critical. He's pretty sure the mushroom cloud will be visible to us here. Hell, it'll be visible from Florida. He thinks maybe if he can salvage a handful of your pulped and bloodied remains, he'd like to jump up and down on them for a while." He paused, looking thoughtful. "I think I'll put my handful in a vase, and then put a big bunch of lavender on top of you. No, wait, I'll put it in a jar, and make you spend all night listening to noises that make you want to dig your own brain out through your ears with a screwdriver. Maybe I'll start with some Rachmaninov..."

"You don't get it, Sammy," his 'big sister' sighed, "It was... it was..." Dee waved a hand vaguely. "It's impossible to describe. Aspects of the female psyche elude me – I'm a guy, no guy was ever meant to understand women completely – but I always thought that I understood the female body. It's... amazing. It was an education, even for the Living Sex God. Especially for the Living Sex God. I have been blessed, Sam, blessed and privileged with insights that guys just never get! Can never possibly get!" The light of revelation was in Dee's eyes. "It was just so... so... for instance, did you know that if you..."

"AAAARGH!" snarled Sam, "You say another word of that sentence, and I will end you!" He brandished his fork, to show that he was serious.

Dee didn't seem the least bit deterred. "I mean, Ronnie's not what you'd call traditionally hot, right? On the outside? The Living Sex God would usually never look twice at a chick with a face like an angry brick, no tits and arms like a trucker. But, you know what? It doesn't matter! It didn't matter at all! If she wants to be, she can be totally hot in bed!"

"Dee," growled Sam, "Don't make me commit senseless cruelty to pancakes by shoving those down your throat, up your nose, and into every available orifice to shut you up and save my own sanity."

"For all these years, I've been limiting myself to the ones I think look hot," Dee's eyes were bright with the inner glow of enlightenment, "And as the Living Sex God I've always been able to pick and choose, being so awesomely attractive myself. But, I wasn't picking and choosing, Sammy! I was limiting myself! All this time, I've been picking the ones that just_ looked_ hot – how many have I missed out on? How many hot women have I missed out on, because there was some other chick with a bigger rack, a smaller ass, a prettier face? Hundreds! Maybe thousands!"

Sam regarded his 'big sister' carefully. "Right now, I can't decide whether you've had some sort of amazingly enlightened feminist epiphany, or just gotten another gold star on your Male Chauvinist Pig card," he announced. "The only way we could really find out would be to put you in front of a panel consisting of Gloria Steinem, Naomi Wolf and Germaine Greer, and see whether they pat you on the head or beat you to death with their manuscripts. Although we may not have to worry about that if Ronnie gets her paws on you, because once you've been shredded into teeny tiny little pieces of bloodied pulped flesh, it'll be a moot point." He ran a hand through his hair. "I mean seriously, what possessed you, what the hell possessed you, to take Ronnie's body for a, a, a titillation test-drive, with another chick? Are you completely suicidal? And butt-dialling Bobby? Mind-blowingly stupid, even for you."

Dee was not at all fazed. "It was meant to be," 'she' nodded sagely, "It was Fate, or Destiny, or one of those other assholes who's normally such a bitch to me. One of them decided to make it up to me, and while I'm cursed, they have allowed the Living Sex God this experience so that his work on this planet might be even more worthwhile. I should write a book, Sam! I should tell other guys about this! I'm a guy who's experienced being a girl, and can explain it to guys! In a way guys will understand! I speak their language! And, I can explain to girls how to explain it to guys!"

Sam experienced a shiver of foreboding at the vaguely frightening evangelical tone of Dee's voice. "Uh, honestly, bro, er, sis, I can't see you being the type to sit still for long enough to write a book..."

"You're totally right, Sam," beamed Dee. "I gotta make another video! You really are smart!"

"I'm really not sure that this is such a good idea..." Sam began.

"It's an awesome idea!" declared Dee. "As the Living Sex God, it's my duty to pass on the knowledge I've gained!"

"Yeah, okay, fine," agreed Sam, defeated, "You might as well. After all, Ronnie is already going to kill you for making whoopee with her body with another chick. She can't kill you twice."

"She might even learn something," Dee said dismissively, "She'll thank me later."

Sam wondered briefly if there was some obscure historical precedent, some ancient lost culture in which members of a tribe thanked someone by pulling that person's kidneys out through their ears. He doubted it.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

"I don't get it," Sam complained into his cell later that day as he scanned back over the material Bobby had sent him. "I think you're right about him breaking the curse by embracing his cosmic feminine energy. He's been embracing readily enough to scare me, but he's still, um, her."

"After his efforts last night, I don't know how much more cosmic he could possibly be," sighed Bobby at his end of the line, "Not without gettin' blasted into orbit."

"Which is starting to sound like a pretty good option about now," groaned Sam. "Maybe there's some sort of delay. I'll keep looking at the stuff you sent me. Speaking of blasting, how's Ronnie taking it?"

"Scared the bejeezuz out of me," Bobby confided, "Took off for a couple of hours this morning, and I was just about ready to go lookin' with a shotgun, a first aid kit, a fire extinguisher and the mop when she came back."

Panic seized Sam. "What did she do, Bobby?" he asked urgently, "What did she do to Dean's body?"

"Nothin', son," Bobby reassured him. "His hair's all there, includin' his eyebrows, all four limbs are still attached, and if she'd tried to amputate anythin' out of sight, there'd have been symptoms of blood loss. I did a quick check, and the nearest tattoo parlour is too far away for her to have got there and back. She said she ran out of thread, and chocolate cookies, and now she's just back at the needlework again."

Sam was doubtful. "There are some forms of witchcraft that use embroidery," he said, "And her mother was a white witch, do you think she might be..."

"Not unless she plans to afflict you brother with butterflies," chortled Bobby. "I've had a talk with her, with Andrew to back me up. Dean's bein' affected by the curse, I've told her, he's not in control of his own actions. The needlework really does seem to be keeping her occupied. Subtle is not Ronnie's strong suit, Sam," he went on, "If she was goin' to do something, she'd have done it by now."

"Okay. Well, I'll keep an eye out for suspicious-looking butterflies," smiled Sam, as the call ended. The mental picture of his brother's body sitting quietly and doing embroidery was about the most incongruous thing he could imagine seeing Dean doing.

Like so many others he'd held, that particular belief ended up dying a violent death.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

It was poetic justice, in a way, thought Sam, gazing bemusedly at the screen of the second laptop, whilst Dee, fangs bristling and claws extruding, raged and bellowed and howled with anger.

Dee had returned in the afternoon, sauntered into Sam's room, showed off a couple of new purchases, then headed for her own room. She'd been in there for all of ten minutes before a decidedly lupine angry roar brought Sam running, gun drawn.

He had expected to see some enemy, some fugly, or possibly even discover that Feral Fido had followed Dee home. What he did see – apart from his 'big sister' struggling to control the wolf trying to surface – was Dean's own body smiling angelically from the screen...

"I'll kill her," snarled Dee, "I'll tear her armsh off, I shwear I'll shkin that woman alive for thish!"

"Er, what exactly is the problem?" Sam asked reluctantly.

"That, Sham!" Dee pointed an accusing claw at the laptop, "That, right there, ish the problem!"

Reluctantly, Sam hit replay.

'Dean' gave the camera a smile that was nervous, but would definitely make females of a certain demographic swoon. "So, uh," 'he' began hesitantly, "There's something I need to say, something I should've said a long time ago, but I've been too much of a selfish chickenshit asshole to own up."

'Dean' ran a hand distractedly through his hair, a gesture guaranteed to make Supernatural fangirls go 'squee', and took a deep breath before continuing. "I am a womanising fornicator. Your words, bud. And you're right." The smile emerged again. "Since before it was legal for me, I have screwed my way from one end of the country to the other and back again, leaving no woman untouched, no bed unruffled, no toes uncurled, if I do say so myself. But it's always been hollow; wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am, and sometimes I don't even stay the night. Because, it means nothing. I've been trying to convince myself that I'm not who I really am. And I'm sick of living a lie."

'Dean' 's bottom lip trembled adorably.

"You are unlike anybody I've ever met before," he went on, voice quavering ever so slightly, "And the one thing, the one thing you have always done, is have faith in me. When nobody else, including me, could do it, you had faith in me. You were there for me. It didn't matter to you that I wasn't there for you when you needed me most..." A single tear made its way down his cheek. "No matter how rude I was, no matter how much I ignored you, or yelled at you, or blamed you for things that weren't your fault, you had faith in me. And you were there for me." 'Dean' sniffed and self-consciously wiped the tear away. "I gave you such a hard time over it, but you're right. We do share a profound bond. I've just been too scared to admit it to anybody. Especially myself. That ends right now."

He pulled off his tee to reveal an intricate design on his chest. Not just a design, but carefully executed script, spelling out a name, with a set of intricate wings around it...

"I mean it. It's time I got my head out of my ass, and all of me out of the closet. I don't care who knows it. I want the world to know it, and I especially want you to know it. I think you already do, but you deserve to hear me say it." 'Dean' 's smile lit up his face. "I love you, Cas. You saved me from Hell. You are my angel. And I hope you'll grip me tight forever."

The clip, entitled 'I Owe A Special Guy An Apology' ended, and the laptop fell silent. The same could not be said for Dee.

"The front page!" growled Dee, "It made the front page of YouChube, Sham! The view counter ish ticking over like a ferrish wheel on amphetaminesh!"

"Er, it does seem to be very popular," Sam conceded uncertainly, his mind boggling as he scanned some of the comments.

"Popular? It crasshed the sherver, Sham! That evil bitsch hash told the world I'm gay for Cash, and women are going crazshy for it!"

"I think it's the, er, romantic nature of the declaration that seems to be appealing to them..." Sam went on.

"Romantic? _Romantic_? She got hish name tattooed on my chesht, Sham! That'sh not romanshe, that'sh vandalishm!"

Sam peered hard at the screen. "I think you'll find it's done in henna," he opined, "Which isn't permanent. It'll only last a few weeks."

"A few weeksh? Great. Jusht great. That'sh jusht fucking peachshy, that is," snarled Dee. "Not that it mattersh, I guesh, becaushe after that I'm never going to get laid ever again! The Living Shex God hash been publicly labelled ash batting for the wrong team!" He let out an anguished howl. It sounded so anguished that Jimi joined in on general principles.

Sam dropped his face into his hands. "Well, considering what you did with her body last night..."

"I did it in private!" sniped Dee sullenly.

"Well, you did butt-dial Bobby," Sam pointed out, only to have Dee snarl at him, and pick up her jacket and keys. "I'm going out."

"What?" Sam jumped up to stop her. "You can't! You can't go out with your, you know, teeth, claws, wolf thing happening."

"It'sh getting dark," muttered Dee, "Nobody will notishe. Hopefully drinking an enormoush amount of alcohol will help me not to notishe either."

"Er, this is probably a really bad idea," Sam continued.

Dee gaving him a glare and a low growl that, twenty thousand years ago, probably would've signalled to the nomadic tribe that had taken shelter in the dark cave that it was too late to run, and there was no point because you'd only die tired. "Get out of my way," she rumbled.

Sam stood aside. "Where are you going?" he asked insistently. "Dee, what are you going to do? Don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"I'm going to find a bar," Dee grated out, "I am going to find a bar, and I am going to drink until I feel better, then I am going to jump on the bar, and perform a shtriptease routine to shomething by Miley Shyrush, then I will perform a pole-danshe ushing one of the taller cushtomers ash my pole and invite everybody in the bar to video it and upload it to any site that will have it, then I will wear my underwear on my head and belt out shongsh from the Shouth Park Christmash Shpeshial until the copsh come to arresht me. That ish my itinerary for the evening." With a huff of Samesque proportions, Dee turned on her heel and flounced out the door.

Sam sighed. He took Jimi, and made his way back to his own room. There probably wasn't much he could do except wait. And monitor local news sites for any incoming reports of lewd behaviour in a nearby licensed establishment.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo...**

Dean was angry, and, by extension, Dee was angry. She stalked through the street, the Don't-Fuck-With-Me Field turned all the way up to eleven. What I need right now, she thought, is something to drink, and something to punch...

A noise from a nearby alley drew her attention, and her face formed into a feral grin. It was like Ronnie had said; rolling these guys never got old. Cockily, she sauntered into the alley.

"Jusht hand over thish evening'sh takingsh, pal," she growled, grinning maliciously at the horrified expression on the dealer's enforcer's face. "I'm not in the mood for witty banter while I busht your armsh, so let'sh jusht cut to the part where I chake all your money..."

Slowly, Dee realised that the terrified man wasn't looking at her, but over her shoulder.

"Oh, for fuck'sh shake," she muttered, reaching for the gun that dangled forgotten in the thug's hand, "Do I have to do everything myshelf? Help a lady out here, pal..."

"With pleasure," rumbled a deep voice from behind her, "You can keep the little pea shooter, I just want the money."

"Fuck off and find your own shcumbags," she snarled angrily, not bothering to turn around, "Unlesh you want your arm bushted too..."

Before she could say anything further, Dee found herself subjected to a sudden olfactory assault. The scent that suddenly surrounded her was earthy, musky, redolent of power and blood, and very, very male...

"I am here," the deep voice rumbled again, enticingly dangerous, "And I am Alpha."

* * *

><p>There, just squeezed him in by thiiiiiis much... apropos of something completely different, I think I am going to have to call for your assistance in dealing with some protobunnies. Stand by for an episode of The Jimiverse's Next Top Bunny (Tyra Banks Not Included).<p>

Reviews are the Winchesters Recording Heartfelt Messages of Love on the YouChoob of Life!


	20. Chapter 18

Oh, I are hating teh Real Life at the moment, it is teh horrible. I curse Real Life, and the camel it rode in on. The Denizens' kind reviews are the little bright spot in my day (apart from doggy cuddles) - I don't know whether that's sweet, or sad. All I know is, I am an addict and I must have my next fix...

Meanwhile, over on The Jimiverse's Next Top Plot Bunny, Bunny #2 seems to be the frontrunner. What is it with you lot, and Winchesters getting whacked around?

Oh, yes, while I have you attention, could I just make a Jimiverse announcement.

**NOTICE TO ALL DENIZENS: **Can I just be **totally clear** about this: there will be absolutely **NO** Shenanigans A La Winchester permitted on the pool table. The surface will get damaged, and it's as expensive as hell to repair or replace. So **stop asking**. I won't say this again. Use the sofa. Or the spa. Or the bearskin rug. Or the water bed. Or the double shower. And while you're at it, pick up their clothes when you're finished; I'm sick of coming down here and having to pick up assorted shredded shirts and pairs of jeans. I found a pair of shorts clogging up the filter box of the spa the other day. And to the person who left the rope and the feather duster dangling from the bedposts, learn to pick up after yourself, I am not your mother. Honestly, if you kids can't look after the games room, I won't let you use it at all.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Eighteen<strong>

Dean found himself in the situation of being a vaguely homophobic horny heterosexual male experiencing proximity to an Alpha male whilst occupying a female body.

One the one hand, Dean's male mind was affronted and completely squicked out by the approach. On the other hand, as Dee, that mind had no experience of pair-bonding. Back on that first hand, Dean's self had brought with it a raging libido. Back to the other hand, Ronnie's body was that of an adult female werewolf, but now without the mental dampers of pair-bonding on the brain, that body reacted to the presence in a disconcertingly interested way.

There is no word available to describe the simultaneous repulsion and attraction, the startling mental and physical dichotomy, that Dean, as Dee, experienced. Under the circumstances, we can only improvise.

So, let us say that Dean/Dee experienced a moment of intense... blooglerumf.

**...**oooooOOOOOooooo**... ...**oooooOOOOOooooo**... ...**oooooOOOOOooooo**... ...**oooooOOOOOooooo**... ...**oooooOOOOOooooo**... **********************

Dean/Dee turned slowly, and experienced a moment of intense blooglerumf.

Dean was generous enough, and secure enough in his status as the Living Sex God, to acknowledge that the individual standing before him might be considered an attractive man. A strong face, handsome, with a smile that hovered somewhere between come-hither and bloody mayhem. Not quite as tall as Sam, but more heavily built. The Hunter assessed the potential threat before him. Ronnie had been right; one look was enough to let him know that going toe to toe with this guy would be suicide. He would have to use Dee's cosmic feminine energy. That, and fight dirty.

Dee was somewhat bemused to find that her cosmic feminine energy didn't require much summoning.

"I'm sorry, I don't remember issuing invitations to my little creep creep-out session," Dee drawled.

Feral Fido stepped closer, right into her personal space. "Oh, but you did," he rumbled, smiling a smile that suggested an evening of mutually pleasurable mindless violence could be on the cards, "You've been leaving your scent in bars, alleys, and other likely haunts across town for days. And it is very... inviting."

"I was bored," Dee humphed almost petulantly, "You can't blame a girl for going out and looking for... something to eat." She turned back to the enforcer – the dealer had fled, droppinig his money, his merchandise and his weapon – and carefully let her teeth elongate a little more.

"What a lovely smile you have," Fido told her, "Do you often... indulge yourself at times other than the full moon?"

"Occasionally," Dee nodded. "Not him, though, I think," she gestured carelessly at the quaking enforcer, "Too high in fat, full of steroids. I prefer my meat organic and free range. Grain fed. I have my figure to consider." She turned to the quaking man. "Go on," she flapped a hand at him, "I'm not going to eat you. You'd go straight to my waist. Shoo." The terrified man obliged, taking to his heels.

"And what a considerable figure you have," Fido grinned, letting his own fangs descend by way of demonstration. "By which I mean, you have a figure that I would like to consider."

"Oh, if you like this, you should see me when I, uh, let my hair down," Dee grinned back, cocking an eyebrow.

"I think I would like to do that, very much," Fido agreed. "I rarely meet others who know what they are, and it's even rarer to encounter others who... indulge themselves outside of... usual business hours."

"Moderation is the key," Dee told him, slapping playfully as his hand got too close. "I try to eat only vegetarians at least twice a month."

The male wolf laughed heartily at that. "I am Morgan," he said, leaning in to sniff at Dee, "I am Alpha. And now I have found you, tonight, I will mate with you."

"I'm Dee," she replied, staring back in a brazen manner, "I am an Aquarius. And I'm afraid that tonight I'll be washing my hair."

"Ah, the games an Alpha female will insist on playing," Morgan shook his head bemusedly, rumbling with laughter again. The sound carried another message that Dee was able to get the gist of. _Strong, assertive. Very attractive. Attraction. I will mate you, Alpha bitch._

"I'm very fussy about who I play with," smirked Dee, turning her back on Morgan, "But, I shall consider your offer. And perhaps I will take you up on it sometime. If there's nothing good on TV. I believe the Discovery Channel is running a documentary about navel fluff tonight..."

She had only sauntered a few steps back along the alley when a hand like a vise closed on her shoulder.

"I am Alpha," he repeated, an expression that was half smile, half snarl on his face, "And it was not an offer."

"You're right," Dee smiled, "It was a fantasy. But don't sweat it, big guy, I'm sure your right hand will take you back."

Without further pause, she hauled off and hit him as hard as she could.

It was a wicked punch; the technique honed by her grandmother since before she started high school, and the strength of an Old North werewolf behind it, it was a punch that had taken down alpha males before.

Morgan's head rocked back, then he smiled again, and grabbed her wrist.

"If you mate with the same enthusiasm you fight, I think I will enjoy you," he grinned.

Dee snarled, and lashed out with the other hand. Morgan caught that too.

"And I think you know that you will enjoy it, too," he continued, with maddening smugness. "I can play rough, if that is what you like."

Head spinning with blooglerumf, Dean fought down the urge to go nuts and headbutt the sleazy asshole, while Dee told herself to stop paying so much attention to how very male he smelled. After a moment of consideration, Dean decided that feminine wiles and potent allure would have to carry the day. Over to you, Dee...

She let the tension fall out of her arms, and looked up at Morgan, a feral, inviting smile on her lips. "I have to admit, Morgan, you are a most impressive specimen," she almost purred. "It has been a long time since I found one like you. Just the way I like them. Big," she stepped up, pressing herself against him, "And strong," she leaned up to whisper in his ear, "And very... very... dumb."

Her right knee pistoned up.

Morgan the Alpha Male Werewolf let out a small noise that sounded a bit like 'fweep', his eyes crossed, and he fell to his knees, clutching at his wounded... dignity.

Dee bent down, and as she picked up the money the dealer and his heavy had dropped, she patted Morgan gently on the head. "There is something impressive about you. I shall consider it while I wash my hair, later tonight. All of it, I mean. The lake is quite beautiful at night. And private." She looked thoughtful. "Tell me, Morgan, does it count as skinny dipping if I have a full body fur coat when I dive in?"

"I will make you howl for me," he squeaked, undeterred, as he toppled gently sideways to the dirty ground.

"Quite possibly," she agreed amiably, ambling out of the alley. "And the cold water might even help with the bruising. Although you may not want to reduce any swelling in that area _too_ much. Later, big boy." She blew him a kiss, and stepped back onto the street.

She kept sauntering until she was around the corner, then broke into a run as she pulled out her cell.

By the time she got back to the motel, Sam had their gear loaded, and the car running. She told herself that it was the sprint back that had her feeling all hot and flustered.

**...**oooooOOOOOooooo**... ...**oooooOOOOOooooo**... ...**oooooOOOOOooooo**... ...**oooooOOOOOooooo**... ...**oooooOOOOOooooo**... **********************

"I tried to call Bobby, but he's not answering," Sam said as he slid the Impala to a halt outside the nature reserve. "I'd feel better if we could talk to him."

"Well, events have overtaken us," replied Dee grimly, "I got Fido on my tail, wagging his tail, wanting my tail. I told him I'd be here, so we gotta be ready for him. You gotta gank him before he gets too fresh. He's very... handsy. The Living Sex God does not do handsy, Sam. Not with guys."

"If you told him where you'd be, why did you have to douse yourself in that stuff again?" griped Sam. "You're always going on about me polluting your car."

"Scent is a very powerful attractant for werewolves, Ronnie said," Dee justified, "And I want him to home in on me. If I smell strong enough, hopefully he won't pick up on you and Jimi." She produced a small atomiser from somewhere, and gave herself a quick spray behind each ear, and to her decolletage. After a moment's consideration, she gave Sam a few squirts.

"Gaaaah!" Sam swatted Dee's hand away, "What the fuck? Oh, gross, I smell like I've rolled in swamp muck!"

"You smell alluring and nubile," Dee smilingly reassured him, sniffing. "Er, actually, that stuff works for you. Seriously. Must be the potency of your X-chromosome. Or maybe it's reacting with your girly hair. The guys will go nuts for you..." Before she got out of the car, she peered into her compact. "Is my lipstick okay?" she asked.

"It looks fine," humphed Sam, "It's on your lips, not on your teeth, if that's what you're worried about... what are you doing?"

"Fixing my hair," Dee replied, patting at an offending lock. "I want to look nice."

Sam stared at his 'sister'. "Er, Dee," he began carefully, aware of the minefield he was about to step into, "You're not, you know, letting this guy's... ambiance get to you, are you?"

"What?" Dee yelped. "No! No! Definitely not!"

"You're looking a bit flushed," Sam observed.

"I ran all the way back to the motel," she countered quickly, "Of course I'm flushed."

"Dean," Sam deliberately used his brother's name, "You're a naturally horny individual, who spends most of his time being a slave to his hormones, currently occupying a female body, about to go and pretend to seduce an Alpha male. This is no time to let your hormones get the bet of you, curse notwithstanding."

"Don't be ridiculous, Sam," Dee said dismissively, checking her makeup again, "Of course I won't! The Living Sex God does not bat for that team, no matter what plumbing fixtures feature on the meatsuit he may be inhabiting."

"Just... don't go letting your kundalini raise itself," stipulated Sam. "Let's just gank the fugly." He checked his gun and silver knives, "I wish you'd take a weapon."

"I can't, Sammy," Dee told him firmly, "He'll smell silver a mile away. To a wolf nose, it stinks. Take my word for it. Just stick with the plan, I get his guard down, then you send Jimi out to tackle him, and plug him with silver until he looks like lace. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam muttered, clearly unhappy, "The usual, I stay out of the way while big... sister trawls herself as bait and pokes the fugly with a stick." Jimi whined anxiously, clearly also unhappy with what was transpiring; he'd been a Hunter's dog long enough to know how his Alpha operated, and he didn't like it much either.

"Well, Fido Morgan's the one with poking on his mind," Dee pointed out. "So see you gank him before his stick gets too... sticky. By which I mean stickish, or stick-like."

"This has got to be the first time ever that you have stipulated that there will be no poking on a first date," observed Sam.

"I'm free, but not loose, Sam," Dee told him airily, "There's a difference. As soon as I'm back in my own body, then I can get back to being loose. Now, go find a bush to hide behind. Blend in with the foliage. Be as sticky as you can."

Sam grumblingly took cover with Jimi as Dee wandered to the edge of the lake, toeing off her boots and pulling off her clothes, paddling into the water and looking for all the world like a woman intent on a midnight swim.

The breeze brought his scent to her before she heard him or saw him, the heady mix of maleness, strength, and an undertone of _intent_...

Dee felt a desire to hang out her tongue and pant. Mentally, she shook herself to clear the blooglerumf.

"I know you're there, big boy," she called, "You smell like a testosterone packing workshop doing overtime."

"I am here," Morgan confirmed, stepping out of the shadows of the treeline, "I am Alpha." He was unabashedly nude, and he strode confidently towards her.

"My my, you _are_ a big boy," crooned Dee, "Did your Mommy teach you that if you ate all your bodybuilders, you'd grow up to be a big strong wolf?"

Morgan moved closer. Much closer.

"Er, dude, personal space..." stuttered Dee, blushing slightly.

"You are... very attractive," Morgan rumbled in that throaty half-voice, half-growl that made Dee's pulse do a funny beat-skip thing, "I knew it when I picked up your scent. You are... enticing."

"I am? Well, I mean, of course I am," Dee recovered, fanning at herself, "Is it a bit warmer than it was last night, do you think, or is it just me?"

Morgan leaned in to sniff deeply at Dee's neck, surrounding her again with his own scent. Dark, powerful, male, and, if she was honest, strangely... interesting.

"I will make you howl for me," he continued. "I will make you demand my blood."

"You have no idea," murmured Dee, smiling a little desperately as she backed away, trying to ignore her nose, which appeared to be setting off little bursts of fireworks that exploded in her hindbrain and wrote _male male malemalemale_ across her grey matter.

"Show me your true self," Morgan whispered urgently, "Show me your true self, beautiful bitch."

"True self. Right, right." Dee swallowed, thinking furiously, 'Any time now would be good, Sam'. "Traditionally, there's dinner and a movie first, or maybe a drink... er, I get the feeling you're not a real student of foreplay..."

Morgan advanced, smiling, and Dee realised that if she backed off any more she'd be leading him straight to Sam. Smiling back as enticingly as she could, she thought 'sneeze' very hard. Sneeze, sneeze, whole body sneezing, tickly nose, and a great, big, enormous, wolf-out sneeze..."

"Huuuu-uh-uh-CHOO!" _Oh. Sorry... _

When her watering eyes blinked open again, she was taller, and hairier, and much bigger than the man standing before her Morgan stood, transfixed, staring at her.

"You are magnificent," he whispered, entranced.

_I am Alpha_, Dee whuffed in the Canine equivalent of a chuckle. Dean the Hunter saw the opportunity immediately: on two legs, Morgan would have no chance against Dee on four. Dee stalked back towards him, and caught herself slinking. _And I am ready to... play._

Morgan appeared to be frozen to the spot. "I will give you my blood," he told her.

Dee flexed her claws, and prepared to pounce. _In fact, I was planning on HOLY SHIT!_

Morgan had clearly had much more practice in the transformation; like Ronnie he went from human to wolf in the blink of an eye. And it was Dee's turn to stare.

He was... huge. He was heavily muscled, towering over her, his dark pelt thick and glossy, his movements fluid and predatory, every aspect announcing good health and strength, excellent genes, and a capacity to protect...

_Oh,_ she yipped in surprise, as her heart did that beat-skip thing again. _Oh, fuck me, you really are a big boy. You are... wow._

Of their own volition, her hind legs took her closer to him.

_You are beautiful_, he growled softly, nuzzling her ear, all demand gone from his demeanour, _You are beautiful. Beautiful, strong bitch..._

_Um, thanks_, Dee snuffled back, racked by another shudder of blooglerumf. 'Now would be a really, really good time, Sam', thought Dean's mind, 'Yup, any time now would be really good.'

_Beautiful, strong,_ Morgan repeated. _I will not rut with you tonight._

_You won't?_ Dee was surprised at how authentically disappointed she sounded. _Well, of course, it's perfectly all right if you change your mind..._

_Den with me,_ Morgan went on, sniffing and nuzzling at her again, _I will take you as my pair-bond. Den with me, beautiful bitch._

..._ when a guy says no, he means no, I respect that... WHAT? _Dee let out a sudden yap of surprise. _Now, hang on, Romeo, we're just a couple of like-minded individuals out looking for a good time..._

_Den with me, _he repeated, nibbling playfully at the back of her neck. She yelped and leaped away. _Den with me. You are perfect. We will Den, we will Pair. I will give you my blood for your line. Our pups will be strong and happy. I will protect our Pack._

_You blood? You meant...puppies? _Dee gasped in horror, all blooglerumf dispelled._ Look, a commitment like that is something that should be thought through..._

_The moment I saw your true self, I knew, _Morgan rumbled contentedly,_ When I first scented you, days ago, I suspected it, but now... I will never abandon you._

_Er, look, I really don't have issues with abandonment,_ Dee whuffed quickly, _Abandonment is fine, I'm not at all clingy, I can work with abandonment, feel free to abandon. Don't want to make you feel trapped, or tied down. I mean, there's nothing wrong with tied down, with the right person, but, oh, shit..._

Damned Winchester luck. They finally tracked down the big bad fugly, and rather than turn and fight, the damned thing did the werewolf equivalent of dropping to one knee and proposing. And then, and then, the damned female body that said Winchester was occupying had to go and... react to the presence of said big bad fugly. Winchester luck. It sucked ass.

It sucked ass so hard that it had to be what made the wind change for a moment, swirling around the clearing made by the break in the trees by the water's edge.

Morgan's head snapped up. _Intruder! _he barked, _Intruder!_

_What?_ Dee sniffed the breeze, and caught the scent of Sam. Fuck. _It's not important_, she told Morgan hurriedly, _Some hiker who's got lost, forget him, we can eat him later._

_Intruder! Silver! Hunter! _Morgan was on all fours, heading for the trees impossibly fast, _I will protect you!_

Realising that their cover was blown, Sam and Jimi stepped into the open. Jimi headed straight for the male wolf, eyes blazing red and hellteeth snapping.

Morgan backhanded him, sending the dog tumbling away, yelping, and continued his headlong dash towards Sam. The younger Winchester put a couple of rounds into the onrushing monster, but the damned thing barely flinched, and kept moving, too damned fast.

_Prey,_ the giant male snarled.

As he bowled into Sam, knocking him down heavily and preparing to deliver the killing bite, he was himself knocked sideways by the bulk of Dee cannoning into him, tearing savagely at his neck with her teeth. _Don't you touch him! _She growled savagely, nosing at Sam, who spluttered and gasped, winded.

In that moment, understanding dawned on Morgan's features. _How sad,_ he rumbled as he rolled to his feet, not sounding terribly sad at all, _I would have Denned with you. Hunter._

_I would have chewed through my own leg first,_ Dee growled back, trying to pick up Sam's silver knife – using a weapon while occupying a werewolf body had taken Ronnie years of practice, years of practice that Dee didn't have.

_Allow me to do it for you,_ offered Morgan, sneering.

Dee stood over Sam, claws and teeth bared, ready to make the bastard pay dearly for their lives.

A roaring snarl interrupted their staring match. _I am here! I am Alpha!_

Morgan snarled back in rage at the challenge.

Another wolf charged out of the trees, growling low and gutteral. _Rematch, asshole._

* * *

><p>I love me some reviews. I only got nine for the last chapter *sniff sniff* You have spoiled me, and I want more! More! More! I MUST HAVE MORE!<p>

Ahem. No, I haven't been to my Review Addicts Anonymous meetings for a couple of weeks, why do you ask?

Reviews are the Extremely Attractive Naked Individual Of Your Choice With Fun Times In Mind Pursuing You Along The Shore of the Lake Of Life! (Chocolate sauce by mutual consent)


	21. Utterly Irrelevant Interlude II  DERP!

DERP!

Incidentally, did anyone else see this and go, WTF just happened?

http**COLONSLASHSLASH** derp**DOT** memebase**DOT** com/2012/03/04/hurr-durr-derp-face-gurrrrt-hurrrr-off/#comments

(You know the drill, replace the bold and underlined bits with the required punctuation)

One wonders what that Gamble woman could possibly have written to make his face do that...

"...she wants me to... with what?... wearing what?... with who?... and where?... upside down?... _custard_?"


	22. Chapter 19

Bloody hell, this one's going to end up longer than 'Wolf In Wolf's Clothing' if I'm not careful. Why do my fics do this? They're like snakes - they don't stop growing, they just get longer and longer and longer, provided you feed them the odd rodent... I've been thinking that perhaps I should investigate the writing of fanfics in which the entire story is contained within a shorter form, such as limericks, or maybe haikus.

Two brothers drove out of the night  
>To a town where a ghost caused some fright.<br>When next it returned  
>It was salted and burned<br>Then the big black car roared out of sight.

Demons had no chance:  
>Dean's gun, Sam's wards, Castiel's<br>Eye-Sex Stare Of Doom

I could even re-write some of my other stuff:

Bobby babysat;  
>Demon attacked, but old dog<br>Saved them, then went home.

"We'll have to pretend that I'm gay"  
>Said Sam, "It's the roles we must play<br>To catch out this witch."  
>Dean grinned, and said, "Bitch,<br>You act gay all day anyway!"

Lonely she-werewolf,  
>Found mate Winchesters Hunted;<br>Then, lost her orange.

It's just a thought.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Nineteen<strong>

Morgan scented the newcomer, and issued a low, guttural threat. _I thought I killed you._

Andrew limped forwards, snarling back, claws flexing. _Idiot. Coward._

_I am Alpha! _Morgan roared again, charging.

_Coward! Prey! _Andrew lurched into a charge of his own. They met with a sickening thud, biting and gouging, fur and blood flying.

"Jesus H. Christ," breathed Sam, scrabbling for his gun as Dee hauled him to his feet, "That's... fuck."

Although Andrew was not fully healed, Morgan was carrying two silver rounds, courtesy of Sam. Both of them shrugged of any appearance of weakness as the fought savagely. It was no threat display to establish dominance – they were fighting to kill.

Joni shot out of the trees, eyes blazing and hellteeth bristling, but baulked when she saw the two male monsters fighting. Jimi climbed to his feet and shook himself. Both dogs circled warily, looking for an opening.

"Call him off!" Sam heard Dean's voice yell, as Ronnie emerged from the trees, gun trained on the struggling werewolves, "Sam, call Jimi off! He'll get himself killed! Joni! Joni! Leave it! Andrew! Get out of the way, you dickhead!"

"God's tits," panted Bobby, finally catching up and stumbling into the clearing, hefting his own gun, "Andrew! ANDREW! Get clear, ya idjit! Get the fuck out of the way!"

Ronnie glared at Dee. "Don't just stand there, change back! You can't fire a gun like that! Believe me, I've tried, and just a knife is hard enough..."

_I'm stuck_, yapped Dee, _It's kinda hard to relax and concentrate on changing back with that asshole wanting to gut Sam._ Dee's eyes went back to the males. They were both large specimens of the species, both strong, aggressive males, in their prime. They slugged it out, trading vicious blows that would've decapitated any human stupid enough to get too close.

It was terrifying.

It was... kind of hot, actually. And - _bloogle_ - that was all kinds of wrong. But - _rumf_ - she couldn't stop watching.

"You okay, son?" Bobby quickly asked Sam, taking in his bruised appearance.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Sam assured him, calling to Jimi and glancing at Dee. "He's stuck again, isn't he?" Ronnie's eloquent scowl and Dee's sheepish whine was all the answer he needed.

"What the hell do we do?" asked Bobby, still watching for an opportunity to get a shot at Morgan. "Jesus Christ, ANDREW, YOU'RE NOT HEALED UP YET! GET CLEAR!"

"He won't listen," stated Ronnie grimly, also trying to draw a bead on Morgan, as she managed to produce a snarling bark that a human throat normally would not be able to produce. "It's no good, he won't listen to Canine either, right now, all he can hear is the wolf telling him to kill or be killed. Shit! SHIT! They're going to kill each other..."

"How do we break 'em up?" asked Sam desperately.

"I don't know!" Ronnie yelped, her eyes on the fighting males, "We can't! Even on four legs, I couldn't break this up, I'm a big nasty girl, but I just don't have the brute force..." she let out a gasp as Morgan landed a particularly savage blow. "Oh God," she whispered in horror, "That bastard's killing him..."

"Desperate situation calling for a desperate act," decided Bobby, grim-faced, "We put shots into 'em, one round at a time, aiming for Fido if we can. Eventually, it'll slow 'em down to the point where we can open up on Fido without putting any more rounds in Andrew, then we dig the silver out of him, and if he can change back, we head for the nearest ER."

"Bobby, that'll probably kill him!" protested Sam.

"If we don't do something, he's already dead," snarled Ronnie, raising her gun and taking a deep breath. "Aim for limbs..."

_Brute force won't work,_ gruffed Dee, still watching the fight and feeling the blooglerumf.

"That's why we don't have a choice!" Ronnie snapped. "So, unless you have a better idea, stand the fuck back until you're human again, and..."

Before anybody could protest, Dee shot forward with a roar of her own, barrelling into the two males and sending them all flying.

_**STOP THIS!**_

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Even centuries earlier, when Old North werewolves had been more numerous, males rarely actually fought; disputes were settled by threat display and social dominance until one backed down and submitted to the other. When they did fight, it was usually just a short sharp test of strength, over as soon as one realised that he was outmatched. As in the animal kingdom, it was extremely rare for an argument to be so serious that a fight went to the severe wounding or death of at least one combatant. Live to fight another day was the general rule; it was better for the individual, and better for the species.

What was even rarer was for another wolf to get involved. Disputes were settled by the individuals concerned, not by committee – everybody else would butt out, including any female who happened to be involved. Especially any female who happened to be involved.

So when Dee ploughed headlong into the conflict, the males paused and staggered out of surprise as much as in response to her roar.

_STOP THIS! _She demanded again, turning to backhand Andrew as hard as she could. He went down hard, panting and gasping, his face a picture of bewilderment. Morgan made to pounce on his downed opponent, but Dee put a hand to his chest. _NO! Alpha, no! You have won! You are Alpha!_

_I am Alpha! _Morgan's snarling declaration echoed around the clearing. His eyes fell to her, and he snarled again, raising a huge paw.

In a show of deference, Dee cringed, her ears drooping, large submissive eyes looking up at Morgan. _You have won, Alpha,_ she repeated, _But... you are wounded, too. Do not... do not allow yourself to be..._ tentatively, she put out a paw to touch his arm. _Do not leave your matter, Alpha._

_Hunter,_ he sneered at her, baring his teeth, _Hunter! Prey!_

_This is my true form,_ she whined, _You see my true form, as I have now seen yours. _She looked up at him, still cringing, and dared to lean in and lick at his muzzle in a blatant gesture of submission. _I see your true nature, Alpha. You are... magnificent. A true Alpha male._

Morgan dropped his muzzle to sniff at her face. _What did you call me? _He rumbled.

_Alpha,_ repeated Dee, _You are Alpha. Strong, capable. You have won._ She nuzzled at his chin. _Strong, handsome, male. _She sniffed deeply, and sighed contentedly. _Alpha male._

_You... you will Den with me? _Morgan ventured.

Dee slunk closer, allowing her body and ears to stand a little straighter._ If you will have me, _she whuffed back. _I submit, Alpha, and ask to take your blood, for my line. My pups will be strong._

Morgan put a possessive paw on her shoulder, and pulled her closer. _Intruder,_ he snarled, his attention returning to Andrew,_ Rival. I will kill!_

_Of course, _crooned Dee,_ But he is no rival. He does not rival you. _She nestled against his bleeding chest, as Morgan rumbled with satisfaction. _You are bigger, _she assured him,_ You are stronger, you are more virile. And, _She nuzzled his ear, nipping playfully, _You are much, much... dumber._

Her claws shot up and plunged into his throat, then tore out, ripping bloody gouts of flesh.

Dee threw herself to the ground beside Andrew, and as Morgan staggered backwards, grabbing at his throat, three guns loaded with silver ammo opened up.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

He was indeed, as Dee opined, a big boy. It took a lot to put him down. By the time his bloodied corpse reverted to human, he looked like he'd been machine gunned.

_Whoa,_ Dee rolled over and stood, shaking herself. _Sorry about the hit, _she whuffed to Andrew. _Oh, and by the way, are you totally nuts?_

_He was going to kill you,_ Andrew rumbled back.

_But, you nearly got yourself killed! _yapped Dee incredulously.

_You're alive_, shrugged Andrew. _And as it turns out, so am I. Happy ending._

"It's the wolf brain," Ronnie explained, having translated the brief exchange in Canine, "The werewolf equivalent of being a nice guy – gentlemanly conduct. Males defend females, especially from males who are, er, not gentlemanly." She gave Andrew a resigned look as she dropped to her knees beside him. "Don't try to understand it. It's a dick thing.," she added, rolling her eyes. "Hell's bells," she went on, eyeing Morgan's carcass, "He really fancied himself as a ladykiller."

"Huh - a lupine Living Sex God," commented Sam, as they helped Andrew to his feet. "Who'd have thunk it. You okay, dude?" The wincing whuff and eye roll that the towering werewolf gave him clearly meant _I'll live._

Ronnie gave Andrew a glare, then sighed. "You're stuck too, aren't you?" She sounded resigned. It shouldn't have been possible for a seven-foot-plus, 300-odd-pound monster to radiate intense embarrassment, but Andrew managed it nonetheless. "Great. You'll have to go back to Bobby's in the bed of the truck, under the tarp. We can stop on the way, get you some beer. Just pop up and bang on the cab if you find yourself feeling human. Oh, and if we get pulled over, do NOT bob up and woof at the nice police officer; I ended up with a warning for an unregistered dog, last time..."

"You showed yourself in front of a police officer?" Sam gaped. Andrew whined in embarrassment.

"What happened?" asked Bobby, curious.

"Oh, I told him that Andrew was a very rare Hippohound, a breed developed in South Africa for hunting hippopotamus," she answered, glaring at her pair-bond, "Imported to improve and diversify the bloodlines in the US population."

"He believed you?" Sam asked.

"Worse. He asked me where he could get a puppy," she said glumly.

"As fascinatin' as this conversation is, it's gonna take a hell of a hole to bury Fido here," Bobby cut in, "So best get started. I think I'll leave the diggin' to you young whippersnappers."

"Joni and Jimi will have it done in short order," remarked Ronnie, "And Dean might as well make himself useful while he's stuck. There's a reason I cheat and go four-legged to dig up graves."

"Over there," Bobby gestured to a clear patch of earth, "So we don't have to drag his ginormous dead ass too far."

"I gotta admit, that whole horny female vibe you got happening, very convincing," Ronnie told Dee, "You're better at it than I am."

Dee didn't reply. Dee didn't appear to be listening. Dee was staring at Andrew.

"Well, Mata Hairy, don't just stand there," prompted Bobby, "Go help the dogs dig this asshat's grave."

Dee didn't move. She continued to stare at Andrew.

"Er, are you feeling okay in there, son?" Bobby asked carefully, peering worriedly at Dee.

Dee wasn't sure how she was feeling. The teetering, see-sawing sensation of total blooglerumf had been constantly present, swinging from one mind-set to the other, since she had first encountered Morgan. It had backed off in his absence, but with him present once again, the feeling had returned with a vengeance.

The proximity of two large Alpha males fighting, in such a primal, masculine way, had set the pendulum of blooglerumf swinging even more wildly. It was so intense: the scent, the noise, the smell of blood and the intent to kill hanging in the air... it was flipping switches in Dee's wolf brain as she watched, entranced. And then, with the pendulum at maximum Dee displacement, she found herself looking at Andrew. Really looking.

The word 'see' didn't really describe the experience of the information she received. Oh, yes, she could 'see' that he was large, and well-built, and physically attractive, but there was so much_ more_ to it than that, coming to her via her nose and her ears and instincts that she didn't know she had...

Morgan had stunk of brutality, Andrew was quiet, confident strength. Morgan had radiated dominance and demand; Andrew was redolent of protection, and affection. Morgan had been prepared to kill to keep her; Andrew had been prepared to die to keep her alive. In a werewolf social structure, Andrew would be within his rights to demand her submission, but he did not.

She looked, and she saw what Ronnie saw in him...

_Dean?_ whuffed Andrew in concern, looking back a little anxiously, _Are you okay? Did that asshole get you? Are you injured?_

Morgan had been a selfish thug; Andrew was a gentleman.

Sam was the one who noticed something first. He was sure he recognised the expression of the female werewolf's face; he just couldn't place it immediately.

"Er, Bobby," he ventured carefully, "I think there might be... What prompted you to come find us?"

"Somethin' I worked out about the curse," Bobby answered, "And how it's likely to progress. It tends towards getting broken eventually, but if it had happened while Dean had been in the presence of Feral Fido, the consequences could've been absolutely catastrophic."

"Catastrophic, as in, worse than being mauled to death by a werewolf?" Sam sounded dubious.

"I think if you asked Dean, he'd say yes, worse than death," confirmed Bobby. "Because, if I'm right, Dean is the only one who can break it, but the whole feminine energy thing? It's gonna get worse before it gets better..."

At the top of its arc, the pendulum went bloogle, and snapped with a definite rumf.

As Dee leaped, Sam knew where he'd seen that expression before.

Only, usually, it was on a human face. Well, the face was that of a human, technically.

And privately, they referred to it as Castiel's Patented Eye-Sex Stare.

* * *

><p>Reviews have the power, I find,<br>To make stories spring into my mind,  
>Of werewolves or demons<br>Or evil witch schemin's  
>Or naked Winchester behind.<p> 


	23. Chapter 20

In answer to knivespast's question, Ronnie has been a self-aware werewolf for more than twenty years, and has had a Hunting dog as a companion for most of that time, so she has had plenty of practice in hearing and speaking Canine. Andrew can't really understand much while he's human, yet, and Dee, as a new occupant of a werewolf body, can only get the gist. Like any language, it's a practice thing. And I'm Overlord of the Jimiverse, so I can write it however I want, so nerny nerny ner.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Twenty<strong>

"That's certainly somethin' you don't see every day," remarked Bobby, as ever the master of understatement.

"I guess it's the combination of the hormones and the curse," Sam pointed out, "You did say it would get worse before it got better."

"This is like watching myself do werewolf porn," said Ronnie faintly, "It's... weird."

"Rule 34," nodded Sam, "There are no exceptions." He tilted his head sideways.

"I'm hopin' it won't get to that," Bobby said, trying to sound positive, "Because technically, mechanically, I don't think that she can exactly, er, force herself on him..."

"The story of the Wildhunt kennel is that the founding bitch, Arcadia, forced herself on a Hellhound," Ronnie reminded them.

A horrible moment of silence descended, broken only by Dee's panting and Andrew's whimpering.

"Do something!" insisted Ronnie, flapping a hand at Sam. "He's your brother!"

"It's your body!" Sam looked horrified, "You do something!"

"Do either of you wanna risk gettin' in the way?" asked Bobby. He let the idea of becoming the accidental filling in a werewolf sandwich sink in, and they both subsided. "Didn't think so. Don't get between a starving wolf and its meat."

"Or, in this case," added Sam, "Don't get between a horny she-werewolf, and her intended mate's..."

"Don't you say it!' yelped Ronnie in a shrill voice, "Don't you dare finish that sentence!"

"The thing that's bogglin' my mind," Bobby went on, "Is that werewolves, and in fact canines of any sort, are not usually known for being particularly..."

"Arboreal?" suggested Sam.

"Well, I was goin' to say 'discreet, but herself is pushin' new limits of indiscretion'," continued Bobby, "But yeah, that too."

They stood silently for a while, watching the bizarre scene play out before them...

With her bloogle having gone completely rumf, Dee had thrown herself at Andrew, nuzzling at his chin and panting. He fended her off, gruffing good-naturedly at her at first, then backing away as she became more insistent, pressing herself against him, and panting, tongue lolling.

" 'We will Den'," translated Ronnie in bewilderment, " 'Alpha male, strong handsome Alpha, we will Den', 'Bitch! Please!' No, really, that's exactly what he said... 'I will take your blood for my line', 'Dean, stop it! You're cursed!' 'Ohhhh, you're so hot when you play hard to get...' 'Stop! Stop! You don't want to do this!' 'All I want to do is you, handsome!' 'No, you don't, you really don't! Help!' 'Don't worry, I'll keep my teeth out of the way...' 'Seriously! HELP!' "

"I'm afraid you're on your own, son," called Bobby to Andrew in a resigned voice, "Aint nobody here gettin' paid enough to risk becomin' a werewolf condom."

Dee let out a howl – " 'Stand to and prepare to be boarded, big boy!' _What_?" – and pounced.

With a yelp, Andrew twisted out of the way, and took to his heels. In desperation he ran up the first tree he came to. Despite the fact that werewolves were never meant to climb trees, he managed to scrabble up out of Dee's reach, and cling on.

It was a tall, lithe conifer, with few branches lower down. Fortunately, this meant that Dee was unable to follow him up the tree.

Unfortunately, it was a young, whippy tree, still lithe and flexible, and never intended to be climbed by anything heavier than a squirrel...

"I think that poor little tree is going to snap," opined Bobby, "It looks like it's bent as far as it can possibly go."

"Well, for the millions of years that conifers have developed, at no point has there been any selection pressure for them to evolve to being able to hold up werewolves," Sam observed.

Dee prowled around the bending tree, as Andrew's weight caused it to creak alarmingly. The bug-eyed look on his face suggested that the gruff snuffling monologue Dee kept up was her making some rather interesting comments as to how they might occupy themselves.

"I'm guessin' that Dee's makin' some fairly broad-minded suggestions," said Bobby tactfully, when Ronnie's running translation ground to a halt.

Ronnie's face blanched. "You can't do that!" she shouted agitatedly, "It's anatomically impossible!"

Andrew whined as the tree swayed and dipped in the breeze, bouncing him gently, just out of Dee's reach.

"You could let go and fall on her," called Sam, "If you're lucky, you might wind her for long enough to get a running start."

The groaning creak of cracking green wood sounded very loud in the night air.

"I can't look," Sam clenched his eyes shut, "I can't look, it's been bad enough on the odd occasion when I've walked in on Dean entertaining a new lady friend, but watching him molest somebody I know, it's just too horrible..."

" 'Just let go, lover boy,' " Ronnie translated once more, " 'I'll lie down here, and you won't have to do a thing, just aim...' " Andrew yelped as the branch dipped, and creaked. " 'Goddamnit, get your hairy ass down here! I want to have your puppies!' "

Several things happened at once.

The tree bowed, the wood tearing, and in awful slow motion, began an inevitable drop downwards.

Dee let out a howl of triumph, dropped to the ground underneath Andrew, and threw her hind legs in the air.

Ronnie screamed. Andrew screamed. Sam screamed. Bobby muttered "Balls."

As Andrew dropped towards certain doom, there was a strange flash of red light in the clearing, and a buzzing, electrical twang to the air, as if a thunderstorm was about to break.

The tree finally snapped.

**... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ...**

Hunters develop certain instincts about the things they Hunt. At least, the ones who stay alive long enough to become good at what they do develop certain instincts. They learn to react immediately to a threat without having to think about it. For example, if you see three hundred plus pounds of werewolf coming at you, a Hunter's instincts will make your body get out of the way before you have time to think "Shit, that thing's headed right for me, I'd better dodge."

It was only the fact that Dean had very good Hunter's instincts that enabled him to roll clear in the few microseconds he had to realise that he was back in his body, his mind was his own again, and there was three hundred plus pounds of werewolf coming at him just as fast as gravity could pull it.

"Yeeeeeegh!" he wheezed, sitting up, wide-eyed, examining his own hands. He put a hand to his chin, and grinned in wonderment. "I'm me!" he declared, "I'm me again! I'm me! I'm me!"

Several feet away, the female werewolf stared at her own paws, and whuffed happily. With a shrug, Ronnie resumed her human form. "I'm me!" she also exclaimed. "I'm me, and you're you!"

"I'm me!" Dean repeated, getting to his feet, "I'm me, you're you, and we're us!"

"We're us!" she agreed, as they whooped, then clasped hands to perform a small happy dance of body reclamation. "I'm me and you're you! I'm me and you're you! I'm me and you're you!" they sang.

"That's not something I ever thought I'd see," commented Bobby, watching the victory dance, as the large male werewolf painfully picked himself up from the ground with a look of bewilderment on his face. "You look like you could use a drink," grinned Bobby, as the creature looked down at himself. "Just as soon as those two idjits finish celebratin' and we bury Feral Fido, I think we need to find a bar. Or possibly a 24-hour licensed store. You can't go drinkin' in a fur coat, boy," he nudged Andrew good naturedly.

"Um, Bobby," said Sam, sounding as bewildered as Andrew, "What happened?"

"He found the way to break the curse," Bobby grinned, "In order to break it, he had to get in touch with his feminine side, his cosmic female energy. How much more female can you get than wanting to, er, undertake intimate relations with a male, and have his baby? Or in this case, puppies? That's why we high-tailed it here as soon as I figured out exactly what it would take. If that had happened when he was in the middle of seducin' Feral Fido, it would've gone south very quickly."

"Er, that wasn't exactly what I was getting at. Um." Sam went on in that bewildered voice.

Bobby turned and frowned when he saw Sam examining his own hands. There was something else... _odd_ about the boy. His expression of good-natured bemusement was not one he saw often on Sam Winchester's face.

With a sudden sharp intake of breath, he realised where he had seen that expression before.

As he turned back to the male werewolf, and saw it wearing an expression that could only be described as a bitchface, he let out a sigh.

"Well, try to look at it this way," 'Sam' said, "We both get to see what it's like to be a little bit taller."

'Andrew' simply dialled the bitchface up another notch, and huffed in a completely Samesque fashion.

"Balls," muttered Bobby.

**... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ...**

"How you doin', son?" Bobby asked Sam back at the yard, handing him some pills and a glass of water.

"Better, I think," Sam said, "Although I still have this urge to scratch my ear with my hind leg."

"I got this strange urge to eat salad, grow sideburns and wear a paisley shirt," shrugged Andrew, "You can't tell me that's normal." Sam, still grumpy from a cramped ride home lying on the back seat of the Impala, flipped him off.

"I think you two just got caught in the backlash when the curse broke," Bobby suggested, "At least it only lasted for a few hours."

"I don't think I'll get the crick out my neck for a week," complained Sam.

"You should've ridden home in the bed of the truck," Andrew told him, "It's actually kinda cosy there, just you, and the beer. Plus, that police officer probably wouldn't have seen you."

"I should've noogied him to death when I had the chance," Sam went on grumpily.

"For lettin' a cop spot the Impala with a tail-light out?" asked Bobby.

"No, for telling the cop that I was a South African Hippohound," Sam explained. "He told her that I was well trained. He told her that despite my appearance, I was a big sook."

"Well, after she spotted you, he had to do something," reasoned Andrew, "Or she might've asked awkward questions."

"He made me get out of the car, and demonstrate how well-behaved I am. Sit! Shake hands! Roll over! Beg! Play dead!"

"Well, he had to come up with a cover story at short notice," Bobby added.

"He told her that my injuries were from a failed mating attempt with a bitch who wasn't quite in season!"

"Well, that's just plain unbelievable," Andrew snorted, "Because there's a technical term for a male werewolf who tried to mate a bitch who isn't agreeable. That word is 'corpse'."

"He made me balance a Dorito on my nose!"

"Did you flip it up in the air and catch it when he said you could eat it?" asked Bobby. Sam huffed in irritation. "Well, you're you again now. Where is the Werewolf Whisperer, anyway?"

"He went upstairs to take a shower," Sam replied, "Said he wanted to make a start on getting rid of his, er, henna adornment, and something about washing the stench of lavender off himself. I don't think he cares much for your choice of toiletries," he added, as Ronnie appeared in the kitchen.

"You wait until he gets a whiff of the fabric softener I used on his clothes," she grinned smugly.

As they spoke, an outraged howl sounded from upstairs.

"Uh, you think he found out about the fabric softener?" asked Sam reluctantly.

"Either that, or he discovered that I ironed all his jeans," she shrugged.

"I don't think that getting your jeans ironed is really a reason to yell blue murder," Andrew said doubtfully.

"If they have a razor crease down the front of each leg, it might be," Ronnie suggested cheerfully.

Dean stormed into the kitchen, wearing a towel and an expression promising murder.

"Where is she?" he snarled, his eyes narrowing as he spotted Ronnie, who just smiled serenely at him. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?" he raged, "Vandalising me wasn't enough for you?"

"It's only henna, bro," Sam said in a conciliatory tone, "It'll fade in a few weeks, less if you keep exfoliating and using the loofah."

"I'm not talking about the henna, Sam!" Dean stormed, "I'm talking about this!" He stuck his leg out for inspection. "Look at that!"

Sam did. "Er, it's your leg," he commented.

"Well done, college boy," Dean sneered, "Look at what she did to it!"

Sam peered harder. "There's no henna that I can see," he went on, studying Dean's shin, "There's nothing there."

"Er, I'm guessing that's the problem," Andrew put in delicately. "There's nothing there. No henna. And, uh, no hair, either..."

"You shaved his legs?" asked Bobby incredulously.

"No! No!" Ronnie was emphatic. "I did not shave his legs!"

"She's had them waxed!" Dean was practically frothing at the mouth. "All the way up!"

Sam gulped. "Er, all the way up?" he echoed faintly.

"Well, it was a suggestion from the extremely helpful young lady at the salon where I went to have the henna done," Ronnie explained airily, "I told them I wanted to do something special to surprise my boyfriend; they were running specials on their waxing, so I got his legs done, and with that, they offered me a half-price package for full leg, plus crack & sack..."

Sam gaped at her in horror. "You... you got his ass waxed? And... and... "

"Aaaaaargh!" yelped Andrew, "Too! Much! Information!"

"Amen to that," muttered Bobby.

"I feel... violated," seethed Dean. "And... naked. Defoliated."

"It'll grow back," Ronnie waved a hand dismissively. "Probably about the same rate as my eyebrows recover," she added pointedly. "You can keep the loofah, though, take it with you. And use it daily. You don't want to have to deal with ingrown hairs on your..."

"Aaaaaaaargh!" Andrew yelped again, "Somebody who's loaded with silver, please shoot me now."

"Can't help, brain imploding," moaned Sam.

"It wasn't enough you had to tell the world via YouTube that I had the hots for the Sheriff of Heaven, and have his name painted on my chest?" Dean snarled accusingly.

"It wasn't enough you had to parade me around in your 'instructional videos', before you used my body to explore your Grrrrl Power?" Ronnie snapped right back. "Don't you talk to me about feeling violated, Winchester!"

"There are times," Bobby sighed, "There are times, when I wonder what I did in a previous life to deserve what I get in this one. I must've been some sort of mass-murdering, child-molesting, puppy-kicking psychopath. With terrible table manners." He looked at his watch. "It's late – well, it's early – but it's been a long day and night for everybody, so I suggest that we all get some sleep." He glared at Ronnie and Dean. "You two, I will cut some slack on account of you havin' been cursed, but this is as close to a happy ending as we ever get: the curse is broken, final score Hunters 2, Fuglies 0. Everythin' will look better in the morning – well, later this morning – and I'm sure everyone will feel better, and more civilised. And if you don't, I will bang your heads together until _I_ feel better. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Bobby," muttered the two antagonists.

"All right, then. Good night, ladies," he grumped, heading upstairs.

"How does he do it?" Andrew asked Sam, when Dean had stomped back upstairs and Ronnie had headed for the bathroom, "How does he get them to shut up like that, without even raising his voice?"

"I have no idea," sighed Sam, "But I sometimes wonder if it would be worth parachuting him into the Middle East sometime. After calling those two to heel, sorting out the little spat between the Israelis and the Palestinians would be a walk in the park."

**... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ... oooooOOOOOoooooOOOOOooooo ...**

Andrew declared himself fit enough to start heading for home the next day, so he and Ronnie made an early start. By way of peace offerings, Ronnie left behind bacon and pancakes keeping warm in the oven, a blueberry and apple pie, and coffee in the pot.

"She's a bitch, a total cow, and an asshole," Dean said around a mouthful, "But she can cook."

"She kept herself busy while she was here," Sam noted later, as they were preparing to leave and head to their next job, "That's the cleanest I've seen your stuff look for... well, since forever. Bobby said she soaked and washed and mended everything you own."

"God knows what she used, everything smells like a strawberry milkshake," Dean humphed over the neatly folded piles of his laundry. "Oh well, at least the ladies will like it. Hey, whaddyaknow," he mused, "She's darned my socks, too. Who darns socks any more?"

"Ronnie, apparently," smiled Sam.

"Okay, well, maybe she's not a total asshole," Dean conceded grudgingly.

He changed his mind later when they found themselves once again in Bumfuck, Somestate, on the trail of a restless spirit who was terrorising the residents of an apartment building.

"Well, we know he's not in the basement," Sam sounded philosophical when they returned to the motel room.

"Yeah, and he's definitely not in the garbage chute," griped Dean, "Because he might be an angry spirit, but he's not dumb enough to go in there. Nobody, alive or dead, who ever had a sense of smell, woud go in there..."

"I did offer to go," Sam pointed out.

"Your ginormous Sasquatch ass wouldn't have fitted, anyway," Dean was resigned. "I barely did. I just wish I'd had a wetsuit on before I hit the bottom." He sniffed at himself. "Gah! My Baby is going to stink for a week!"

He kept up his litany of complaint as he headed for the shower, and it hadn't really stopped when he came out. Sam, working on the laptop, tuned out his big brother's griping.

"Well, at least I got nice clean clothes to change into," Dean observed, pulling out fresh clothes, "Maybe she isn't... sonofabitch!"

"Hmmmm?" Sam looked up. "What's the problem Dean?"

"This, Sam!" Dean brandished a pair of his boxers, "This is the problem!"

"You suddenly got a grudge against underwear, that's your business," Sam huffed, "You wanna go commando, I really don't want to know about it... _pfaff_!" A pair of shorts hit him in the head. "Dude, gross! I so do not need your shorts on my head! You are... oh. Er." He examined the shorts.

They had a beautifully executed butterfly embroidered on them.

"What the hell is that, Sam?" demanded Dean, "What the hell is that?"

"Er, a Lacewing, I think," Sam examined the needlework, "They're native to Queensland, where Ronnie comes from. It's a pretty good likeness..."

"Well, I'm not wearing shorts with a butterfly on them," Dean carped, shuffling through his duffle, "The Living Sex God does not... FUCK!"

"Are you kidding? That's all he does," Sam rolled his eyes, but paused as Dean held up another pair of shorts. "Oh. Um. That's... a Cairns Birdwing, I think, the largest butterfly endemic to Australia..."

"Bitch," muttered Dean, reaching into his duffle again. In short order, he produced pairs of boxers that were embroidered with teddy bears, kittens, duckies, little mushrooms, a Hello Kitty, a unicorn, and...

"An angel, Sam!" Dean yelped, "She's embroidered an angel on my shorts! With 'Thursday' underneath it! No man can wear shorts with an angel on them!"

"It's kind of cute... in a totally unacceptable way," Sam amended as Dean glared at him.

"I do not have single pair of shorts suitable for the Living Sex God to wear!" he humphed. "That bitch has vandalised them all! I cannot go out seeking female company in shorts with an angel embroidered across the crotch!"

"Looks like it's commando then after all, bro," smiled Sam, as Dean threw him a scowl. "I thought that the henna tatt was going to put too much of a cramp in your style, anyway."

"If I keep loofahing it, I should be able to get rid of it in a couple of weeks," muttered Dean. "First thing tomorrow, I am going out to buy some unadulterated shorts." He scanned the pile before him, and selected a pair with a gambolling puppy as the least worst available option.

As Dean turned, pulled on his shorts then dropped his towel, Sam caught a flash of dark marking against pale skin, and did a double take. He was going to say something, but then figured there was no point in provoking Dean any more. Like the other henna tattoo, it would fade with time and exfoliation.

The only trouble was, it was located in the small of his back, so Dean never actually noticed it. As a result, he didn't loofah it vigorously the way he did the henna on his chest, so it was still clearly visible long after 'CASTIEL' and the wings had faded to nothing.

In the end, he didn't yell at Sam for mentioning it; he yelled at Sam for not mentioning it.

The Living Sex God had dealt with the situation smoothly, of course. When a young lady with whom he was enjoying some mutually consenting adult entertainment found it, he made up a story on the spot about how he had a twin brother who had roofied him on their birthday, and attacked him with a bottle of henna. She accepted his explanation, and they got on with enjoying their beautiful natural act.

Which was a testament to the awesomeness of the Living Sex God, Dean decided later, because only a guy who was really secure in his own masculinity could possibly have continued when his lady companion had just pointed out that he had a tramp stamp of a rooster, an arrow pointing south and, underneath that, the words 'GOES IN HERE'.

_**THE END**_

* * *

><p><strong>AUTHOR CREDITS AUTHOR CREDITS AUTHOR CREDITS<strong> go to:

*** **TheBlueOrleans**, who made the amusing suggestion about the backlash from the curse breaking, and

*** **Kepouros**, who opined that Dean needed a tramp stamp. Now, she should take her inspirations, and go work on her story 'The Fangirl Chronicles'. *frowns at Kepouros*. Go check it out, if you haven't already. Maybe the eebil spirits could have put a Sharpie curse on them before Castiel ganked them, and now they have awkward decorations?

Anyway, that's another plot bunny stomped. *squelch* Little bastards. Now that this one is finished, I shall go and put some effort into encouraging one of the proto-bunnies from 'The Jimiverse's Next Top Plot Bunny'. It looks like Bunny #2 will get the gig, so I'll try being nice to it, and see if it produces enough details to turn into a whole story.

Meanwhile, reviews make the bunnies bolder! And might mollify me, after the mess I found in the games room. Maybe I should get the DDD&SSS crew in, if only to clean up in here. *Holds up riding crop* Whose is this? *Points to puddle of custard on the floor* Who left that? And why is there a pair of shorts with butterflies embroidered on them floating in the spa?


	24. BONUS FEATURE: Deleted scene from Ch20

...Because I know what the Denizens want, and I'll write it for reviews...

* * *

><p><strong><span>SPECIAL BONUS FEATURE<span>: DELETED SCENE FROM END OF CHAPTER TWENTY**

_Bobby's study. Dean and Sam are poring over books._

**Dean (biting bottom lip in attractive confusion):** They have aspects suggestive of Amazons, temptation demons, Deadly Sins, succubi, sirens, but they aren't any of those things. What the hell are they?

**Sam (frowning adorably):** I think they might be a sub-genre of... fangirl.

**Dean (looking cutely vulnerable):** But... how do they get past Bobby? Why are they always so... convincing?

**Sam (doing eyebrow thing that makes him look like a little boy who needs to be mothered):** I think they might be tapping into the power of a fickriter.

**Dean:** A what?

**Sam:** It's a creature that can bend reality to suit itself for the purposes of amusement. It derives its power by feeding off the adulation of others. They, in turn, are inspired to encourage it. It's a vicious circle.

**Bobby:** My advice to you idjits is that you don't go messin' with one of these things. They're pretty much harmless. They just sit at their laptops, and giggle to themselves.

**Dean:** Harmless? _Harmless?_ You haven't been inside that van, Bobby! It's... it's...

**Sam (in a small voice):** I don't want to go back into the custard tub...

**Bobby:** Well, you always come out so clean and presentable, smellin' nice, and I know that Dean enjoys the thing with the chocolate brush, and unless I've suddenly adopted a cat, I suspect that the purrin' noise is coming from Sam when they do the scalp massage and hair treatments...

*The Winchesters both blush furiously*

**Dean:** So, how do we stop them? Set fire to that *shudder* van?

**Sam:** We have to deal with the fickriter. *touches own hair* Although it will be a shame, because it always comes out so nice and soft afterwards...

**Dean:** So, we deal with _them_, we remove the source of the fickriter's power, and it shrivels up and dies?

**Bobby:** Pretty much. No adulation, it'll just sit there, and sob quietly into its own keyboard.

**Dean:** Right. So, we go confront these things in their lair. Take the fight to them. Are there any weapons we have that will work against these things?

**Sam:** Hang on... reminders of Real Life can repel them.

**Dean:** What sort of reminders?

**Sam:** Uh, says here, reminders of Real Life, including the workplace, such as PowerPoint presentations and meaningless jargon, or textbooks or conversations suggestive of schoolwork requiring completion. Stuff like that.

**Dean:** Okay, we can suit up and work with that. Gimme that business card, Bobby.

**Bobby:** I think this is a mistake. They provide a valuable service, you know.

**Sam:** That's easy for you to say, you haven't had the chocolate sauce massage...

**Dean:** To the Winchestermobile!

_They drive to the headquarters of DDD&SSS. They sneak down damp stairs and along a darkened hallway._

**Sam:** This place seems creepily familiar, somehow.

**Dean:** It's probably the smell of custard evoking memories of... you know...

_They hear that jingle practice is in progress._

**Bartlebead: **All right, ladies, altos watch your bottom register...

**ccase:** I know whose bottom I'd like to register.

*Denizens all giggle and guffaw*

**Katiki:** Yes, but have you read my assay on the registerableness of Sam's backside?

**Darla:** But Dean's just had his waxed.

**Denizens** *mutters of approval*

**Bartlebead:** Save it for tomorrow's seminar, ladies, when the topic will be 'Winchester Backsides: a Custard-Coated Perspective', chaired by SeaGlassGreen. Now, from the top, and a-one, and a-two, and a one, two, three,

**Denizens:** Have your Winchesters been traumatised by curse of body switch?  
>Do you need someone to come and calm your stressed out jerk and bitch?<br>Call DDD&SSS to soak and soothe and scrub,  
>We're local and we're prompt and we've just filled the custard tub.<p>

**Steelhorse67:** Excellent job, ladies, now, I have had a request from admin that we take more care with the surface of the pool table...

**knivespast (muttering):** It barely even got damp...

**Steelhorse67:** Also, these riding crops showed up, they'll go into Lost Property if not claimed.

**Georgia/Kepouros:** That one's mine, sorry, won't happen again, silly me, brain like a sieve, etc.

**Anj Emm:** Has the games committee anything to report?

**aeicha:** Yes, we have made progress with our new project. It's a board game called 'Handsome Handsome Hunter'.

**Denizens:** Oooooooh.

**PaulatheCat:** Meow, every time you land on a Handsome square, your Winchester gets to put on another item, until you have collected them all.

**LeighAnnWallace:** Then there's the Adults Only version; every time you land on a Handsome square, your Winchester removes an item...

**Denizens:** Oooooooh!

_Dean and Sam kick in the door, and stride in, wearing suits and serious expressions._

**Sam (brandishing PDA):** All right, level the playing field, run it up the flagpole and see if you can get it pregnant, I want blue sky thinking outside the box, to repurpose and realign face-time before shooting the puppy and taking ownership of the space – there are seventy-three items on the agenda, I want spreadsheets from everybody before COB as a KPI or it's a CLM, and you're DOA, PNG so POQ and RIP. Fear my TLAs! Anyone who's just GTTM, can GTFO. No POETS day, so PUOSU. Now, back to work, slaves, before I sell you all to the galleys.

**Dean (glaring over silver wire-rimmed glasses and frowning at clipboard):** Tonight, read chapters 4 through 9, and summarise each, it will be on the exam, and also on the quiz first thing tomorrow morning. I want a ten-thousand word essay on why the topic is a good idea, explain elaborate and discuss, contrast and compare, with the other, and heaven help you if your footnotes are not in order. Complete all problems at the end of Section 3, and show your working, or you will be marked down. There will a be a uniform inspection, a lab book inspection, a lunch box inspection, and all phones, iPods and novelty pens will be confiscated. Incidentally, you all have detention. Now drop and give me ten!

**Denizens:** Ska-WEEEEEEEEEE!

**Jelly: **Oh, they look so edible! I mean, professional.

**Leahelisabeth:** Prof Sam, Prof Sam, I need help with my calculus! I want to integrate with you!

**SeaGlassGreen:** Wanna see how many laps of the custard tub I can do, Mr Winchester?

**DefyTheUnknown:** I love me some Winchesters all dressed up...

**elf:** I love me some Winchesters getting undressed!

**maybe-moey**: I'll just go and get the chocolate brush, shall I?

**Rockwat:** See if there's any whipped cream left!

**Dean (looking worried):** Er, this doesn't seem to be scaring them off at all.

**Sam:** YEEEEEP! Oh, no, Dean, we're in their games room! Our weapons are useless against them in here! Madam, keep your derivative to yourself!

**PhoenixFelicis:** I wanna analyse the force your vector has, Prof Sam!

**Sam:** Aaaaaaaargh!

**Dean:** That's it, we're out of here... Yaaaaargh!

*He trips over a carelessly discarded riding crop*

**MegginLane:** Now, just lie there and I'll show you how many push-ups I can do...

**Dean:** Er... *he scrambles out from beneath MegginLane*

*vsama, emebalia and Dani1200 leap out from behind the sofa with large cargo net and throw it over the Winchesters*

**Sam and Dean:** AAAAAAAAAAARGH!

**aeicha:** Now would be an excellent time to do some beta testing of Handsome Handsome Hunter!

**Denizens:** Yaaaaaaay!

*They divide up into Team Sam and Team Dean. They strike a problem almost immediately, as an argument breaks out over who gets their Winchester to wear the collar, the bunny ears and the sparkly briefs. Inevitably, Shenanigans A La Winchester ensues, with scrubbing, massaging, screaming and chocolate.*

_Under the pool table_

**TheBlueOrleans:** What are we doing under here again?

**Ronnie:** Hiding until they get it out of their systems. Did you bring a book? It could take a while.

_In the spa room_

**Bobby (hefting wrench):** Well, there's your problem, this was stuck in the filter box. *He deposits soggy pair of shorts on the tiles* Is that a butterfly?

**Lampito:** You are a man of many capabilities, Mr Singer.

**Bobby:** Looks to me like your gasket might be goin', probably needs recaulkin'. A butyl sealant would be best.

**Lampito:** I cannot help but notice how manly you look in those overalls.

**Bobby:** I noticed that you got a bit of mould growin' on the pump housing, you might want to take the pressure washer to that.

**Lampito:** You honey-tongued Casanova.

**Bobby:** Use an alkaline degreaser, but then you might want to consider regroutin' around the housing, that stuff can be pretty harsh, but it'll get rid of the mould, and the scum that builds up around the trap grating.

**Lampito:** I cannot resist your seductive blandishments, Mr Singer.

*Splashing and a surprised yelp of "God's tits!" are heard*

_FIN_

* * *

><p>Aaaaaaand another bunny finally bites the dust. *squeak* Huzzah!<p>

So, for now, I'll be off to give a bit more thought and attention to bunny #2 from 'The Jimiverse's Next Top Plot Bunny', as it has twice the votes of the others. I blame the corrupting influence of Leahelisabeth. I have been wondering which fanfic staple trope I should give the Lampito treatment next, seeing as I've now done body-swap/gender bender, a Weechesters, a deaged fic, an mpreg, gratuitous nudity, 'Just Like You' was pretty much a kidfic, and even a wedding of sorts (even if Castiel was a terribly reluctant bridesmaid). AU is all that's left. AU to the AU that is the Jimiverse, that is. That, and evil Winchesters. As ever, I am open to suggestions. The Jimiverse: screwing with your favourite fanfic themes, one bunny at a time...

Meanwhile, you know the drill: Reviews make the fickriter rite ficks! And, for the last time: NO SHENANIGANS ON THE POOL TABLE!


End file.
